


Bite it Bloody

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Ending, Character Death, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: After the deaths of Batman and the rest of the Justice League, the free world has fallen, and the remaining heroes are captured or similarly killed; Dick Grayson among them. Upon waking up in one of Lex Luthor's cells, Dick expects to be executed as an example to the rest of the world of what it means to stand up against the new ruling class of villains, but when Slade Wilson walks through the door instead, he soon discovers his actual fate is to be something else entirely. Somethingmuchworse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Welcome to another story that proves it's dangerous for Fire and Skali to collab together. This story was dreamt up with the fateful words of, 'talk to me about something shippy' and now, 2 months later, here we are with the first chapter XD
> 
> Please heed the tags and any additional warnings in future author's notes with this one, folks. As you probably guessed from the summary, it's not going to be a terrible happy fic.

Dick doesn’t know what he’s expecting when the door to his cell opens, but it’s not Slade Wilson.

It’s been hours, maybe longer, since he was left here, dangling from a chain hooked to the ceiling after being stripped of his weapons and every tool he could possibly use to escape. His shoulders are agony, the rest of him even worse as his toes barely brush the floor even when he stretches; he ran out of the strength to support his own weight ages ago.

They left him no mask to protect his identity. No suit to protect him from the blows. Not that it matters, his name was officially outed to any who wanted to know it days ago, long before he and his brothers were captured; their ranks broken as they made a desperate attempt at a last stand alongside a number of other heroes.

But at least he’s alive, and so were his brothers the last he saw of them. That’s more than can be said for some.

Slade’s eye roves over his body as Dick tries to find the strength to get his feet back under him. A second later and a large gloved hand has hold of his chin, forcing Dick to raise his head up to look at him.

He wants to smile, smirk, make some kind of smart alec remark the way he always does. But there’s something in Slade’s expression that warns him not to, even as the quiet click of dress shoes announces someone else’s presence in the cell.

“Are you sure this is the one you want, Deathstroke?” Lex Luthor asks, “You know there are other more… agreeable prisoners. Even among Batman’s brood.”

“Positive.” Is Slade’s hard reply, as he turns Dick’s head this way and that, as if inspecting him from every angle. “Grayson and I have history together.”

He gestures towards Luthor with his right hand, and Dick can still see well enough through his blackened eyes to watch something being placed into his palm. A key? He thinks, which seems to be confirmed when Slade reaches up to his cuffs with it. What’s going on here?

“Oh I don’t doubt it. You know our concerns however. Out of all of them, he’s probably the most dangerous to keep alive.” Slade grunts in acknowledgement, before with a quiet click the cuffs spring open around Dick’s wrists. Stepping back, Slade does nothing to stop his fall to the floor, and Dick can’t help crying out as fire rips through his shoulders and back, courtesy of his muscles being forced into sudden movement after being locked into the same position for far longer than is healthy. And that’s not even counting the sudden jarring of the other wounds across his body that he earned during his capture.

A foot pushes him onto his back a second later. Rough and uncaring of his suffering, and Dick can barely make out Slade’s response to Lex through his own heavy panting.

“Don’t worry, Luthor. I told you, this one I know how to handle.”

The small laugh, Lex’s, comes through a little clearer. “Very well. I’ll leave you to get reacquainted then; Mercy will have a collar and an ID chip ready for you when you’re ready to leave. The cells are monitored, but if you don’t mind an audience feel free to do… whatever you like. No one will stop you.”

Dick’s managed to get back a little bit of his sense of his surroundings by then, so when Slade’s boot nudges his side he only gives a grunt, instead of jerking away. Better to take the ache of his ribs than to risk more. He can’t see it, but dimly there are footsteps, the heavy sound of the door closing. Thicker than he can reasonably get through; he spent a lot of time examining it while he hung in here.

He forces his eyes open as far as they’ll go — which isn’t much — when there’s the faint sensation of air displacement, but it takes him longer to understand the view than it takes for a hand to close on his jaw, pushing his chin up and forcing his neck into an arch that hurts less than it makes panic and immediate refusal well up in his chest. Dick tries to move, tries to pull away, but half of him is pins and needles and the other half is agony and the grip on his chin is unyielding. He can’t—

There’s a low, rumbling growl, hot breath on his throat, and Dick goes still on automatic. His own breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and he can nearly taste the other alpha’s — Slade’s — scent in the back of his throat, feels smothered by the heavy, thick weight of it. Not the first time Slade’s had him down, not the first time a bite’s been threatened to try and force him to back down, but not like this. Never serious.

Slade teased, but he never— He didn’t—

“You going to behave for me, kid?” Slade asks, voice still holding a growl at its edges, teeth still all too near his throat. “I’d hate to add any more bruises to that pretty face of yours.”

He takes a hard breath, trying to get his gaze to go low enough to see Slade’s face. Past the hand on his jaw, and the angle his head is being forced back to. He can’t.

“What’s going on?” Dick asks, and then winces at the sound of his own voice. Rough, cracking from the lack of any fluids and the abuse his throat has been through the last… day? Day sounds mostly accurate, adjusting for the actual fight, and— “What are you doing?”

That gets Slade to pull back enough to look him in the eye, expression as hard as the grip on his jaw. “Doesn’t matter, kid. I’m giving you a choice. Behave, and walk out of this building with me, or I find less pleasant ways.” The flicker of teeth, baring in a small snarl, and the swell of scent before Slade demands, “Answer.”

If he was fully in control of himself, if he was in less pain, maybe Dick could resist that command. As it is, he has to strangle down the whine that wants to escape, doesn’t manage to hold in the shiver or the way he then goes lax, placating. He can’t win this fight; Slade’s hard enough to fight even when Dick’s not exhausted and beaten to hell.

“I’ll behave,” he rasps out, swallowing thickly. “Just tell me what’s going on, Slade. Please.”

Slade, instead of answering, pulls hims to his feet. It hurts like hell, ribs grind in a way he knows they're not supposed to, but even though he definitely doesn't help he ends up on his feet anyway. Leaning hard into Slade's grip, arms tucked around his stomach and trying to decide whether the pain in his shoulders or the ache of his ribs is worse, but still standing. Slade holds him up for a few moments. Then, when he shows no sign of being able to stand completely on his own, gives a mildly displeased grunt and grabs the back of his neck instead. He sags a bit at the loss of support, sucking in a breath as nails dig into his neck and his brain immediately tells him to give in _right now_.

"Short version, kid? New world order, and you're my prize. Try not to fall over."

Slade drags him more than he walks, admittedly, and the pain takes too much of his attention for him to really think about exactly what Slade's words mean. It's all he can do to keep one foot shuffling forward in front of the other.

The base beyond his cell is familiar enough, and there's a guard — robot, maybe? — off to the side that watches them intently as they pass but doesn't move. Slade doesn’t spare it as much as a glance, and so Dick doesn’t hesitate either. He can’t. (The stairs are a special kind of hell, but Slade drags him up those too; maybe lifts him a bit which he appreciates even if he’s not planning on saying it.) By the time Slade lets him stop, he’s breathing hard, trying not to be too obvious about it, and only paying attention to where they’re going through the virtue of a lot of training.

The desk is exactly like a secretary’s, and when his gaze catches on Mercy’s unimpressed, studying expression, it makes sudden sense. Of course she’d have a desk; of course Lex would give her one. “Let’s see… Grayson,” she says, with a small click of her tongue and a turn towards the drawers of the desk.

Dick tries to get a look at the papers on the desk, but his eyesight isn’t the best right now and he can’t quite make out the small print, not in the time it takes for Mercy to take something from one of the drawers and straighten back up, anyway. Slade lets go of the back of his neck and steps forward as she sets the things down, arms crossing over the armor of his mercenary suit.

“Collar, cuffs, and chip.” Her manicured nails push a heavy, black metal collar forward to Slade, a pair of equally heavy duty metal cuffs, and what looks an awful lot like one of the guns used for implanting tracking chips in pets. “Collars are specially made for each hero; this one’s only function is the shock collar, due to the lack of powers. You can replace it if you like. Chip him as soon as possible, and you’ll want to mark him as yours soon enough as well. However you want to do that is fine. The rules are still being put together for correct procedure; you’ll be kept updated.”

“Good.” Slade picks up the collar, clicking it open and then turning to look at Dick.

His breath is coming a little shallow, gaze fixed on the weight of that collar. Suddenly, Slade’s words about being ‘his prize’ sound a whole lot more literal and a whole lot less like just a turn of phrase. Dick has to swallow as he takes half a step back, his chin lowering a bit and his hands curling a bit at his sides. He’s not— He’s not some dog to be collared and _chipped_. Not happening.

“ _Kid_ ,” Slade nearly growls, single eye narrowed. “You don’t want to do that. We had a talk about behaving, remember?”

The collar rises, and Dick shakes his head, backing up another step. (What’s behind him? Door? Corridor? If he runs…)

Mercy scoffs, turning back to her computer. “You did pick the troublemaker, Mr. Wilson.”

“All the best things take some effort,” is Slade’s smooth answer. “Kid, I’m going to give you one chance to come here and let me put this on you. Otherwise it hurts; clear?”

Dick sets his jaw, and ignores the shiver trying to crawl down his spine. He can’t beat Slade, not like this. Can’t outrun him either. But the thought of just stepping forward and letting Slade snap that collar around his throat… He can’t. He won’t.

“No,” he says, as firm as he can manage given how his voice is still rough and cracking.

Slade turns fully towards him. “Alright, kid. Your choice.”

When Slade lunges, Dick never stands a chance. He backpedals, ducks the swipe of one hand on reflex (his ribs _scream_ in chorus with his shoulders), and Slade backhands him with a sharp reversal in the same movement. The force cracks his head into the floor, and his world goes black.

* * *

Almost the first thing that registers, as Dick slips back to consciousness, is the hand on his forehead. What he’s pretty sure is a thumb, rubbing small, gentle circles at his hairline. He shifts, taking in a breath that smells… familiar. Heavy, alpha scent but… more comforting. Not Bruce, and not quite right either. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind that says that something is deeply, terribly out of place.

Dick pulls his eyes open, taking a deeper breath and realizing, slowly, that he feels sort of hazy. Drugged. That’s one thing wrong, but it doesn’t get rid of the slight unease. As his gaze slips over a plain ceiling and down towards the side, his mind slowly coming together to remind him of— of all the _hell_ of the last few days, he finally places why it is he’s feeling that.

Slade.

“Hey, kid. You with me?”

Slade’s voice is soft, pitched low enough to be nearly a murmur, but Dick wants nothing to do with it. He doesn’t— It’s hazy, numbed over by whatever’s in his system, but he remembers the teeth at his throat, the crack of the knuckles against his cheek, the _collar_.

“Slade.” He tries for angry, really, but his voice comes out just slightly slurred instead.

Frustrated with that, he tries to pull away instead, to roll over or curl up or anything to get him a little further away from the man sitting on the bed next to him, but he’s barely even shifted before something is stopping him. He turns his wrists, twists his head to look down, and there are _restraints_. Thick bands, tying him down to the bed and limiting almost all of his movement. Nothing he couldn’t break out of with a little work, but the effort it would take is, he’s pretty sure, beyond him right now.

“Why…?” he asks, and Slade strokes his bangs away from his face before withdrawing his hand.

“Because otherwise you’d fight me, kid, and I need you to listen.” Slade’s expression is all too serious, but there’s no aggression in it right now, no demand for him to submit. (What would be the point? He’s right; Dick’s not going to be putting up a fight.) “We’re alone, so I can answer your questions. But first, things have changed, and you need to understand how the world is now when it comes to you. And me.”

Dick’s got something of a clue. “You said you… I was your prize.”

Slade gives a small nod. “That’s right. Heroes are basically all down; dead or imprisoned. The higher-ups, Luthor and the like, are giving the imprisoned ones away to whoever wants them. As... slaves, pets, experiments, or whatever other uses their new masters devise. I asked for you." Slade exhales a bit harder than normal, holding his gaze. "There are a lot of enemies of your kind, kid. A lot of people that would like to see you all suffer, and most of them are going to get that wish."

All he can manage is to repeat, a little more desperately, " _Why?_ "

"Because you lost, kid. You, your team, and almost every hero on the planet. There are a few still fighting, but… no one powerful enough to make a difference. Not really. You'll need to learn to live in this world, or you'll end up dead too." Slade's eye narrows, head tilting a bit to one side to look at him. "Taking you was a hell of a gamble, kid, but I'm not about to let you get yourself killed just to spite them. I'm going to do things you're not going to like, and you can fight me if it makes you feel better but they'll happen anyway. I'm not doing it to hurt you, but it's going to hurt. Hate me if you need to. You got that?"

There's a sense of slow horror building in his gut. A macabre picture painted in the strokes of the restraints tying him to the bed, and all of Slade's choices of words since he was taken from that cell. "Slade, what's…? What have you done?"

Slade looks at him with almost an edge of pity, looking down at him and giving a slow, measured breath. "You belong to me, kid. I own you. It's not legal, but… it might be, soon. With Luthor and Co. making the rules, who knows? Even if it isn't, it won't matter. No one's going to stop them. New world, like I said. You're mine, and I'm expected to make sure you behave in exchange. It was a hell of a deal I had to cut, kid; they wanted you dead."

"So you…” Dick has to swallow, to take a shallow breath and shift against the restraints. "You _bought_ me instead?"

Slade snorts, shaking his head. "No, kid. I claimed you. And yes, every variant meaning of that word you can think of applies."

It takes a second for Dick's drugged mind to fully process that, but then he goes tight, tense (and realizes that under that fog of drugs he _hurts)_. "You… No. Slade, _no_. I'm not— You know that's not—”

"I know," is Slade's short, clipped response. "Kid, _I know_. I'm not asking you to thank me for it, but this is the easy way. If I didn't take you, you'd either be dead or under the hand of somebody a whole lot more invested in making you suffer. Someday, you'll understand."

"I won't," he denies, gritting his teeth for a second. "Slade, don't do this. Please, don't do this."

Slade lifts a hand, and Dick flinches back but the fingers still stroke over his forehead, still linger for a moment before Slade sighs and stands. One hand braces on a hip — it occurs to Dick then that Slade is in normal clothes, out of the armor and stripped of weaponry — as Slade looks down at him, brow drawn into a small furrow. "You're hurt, kid, nothing's going to happen right now. I'm going to get you some water, and maybe something light to eat. If you promise not to try anything, then we can see about getting you out of those, alright?"

He can't manage an answer, but Slade doesn't seem to be expecting one. He turns to go, and then, finally, Dick manages to choke out, "I won't forgive you."

Slade pauses by the door of the small room, and for a long moment all Dick can see is his back; shoulders a straight line beneath the angles of the pressed shirt. Then, Slade turns his head slightly back, and murmurs, "Yeah, kid, I know that too."

* * *

On the opposite side of the world from Dick, not that he knows it yet, Tim wakes up to shadows, and the flickering shape of firelight on the walls. He isn’t lying on the hard floor of a cell, but instead something soft, cushioned, and beside the scent of burning wood in the air is another that is dishearteningly familiar.

“Good evening, Timothy.”

Tim swallows hard at the sound of that voice. The action is a reflexive one, a sign of swiftly growing anxiety he can’t act quick enough to conceal. His mind is muddled, slowed by some drug flowing through his system, he’s sure. He tries to fight it, push himself up onto his elbows, but ends up only managing to roll himself over instead in what feels like a painfully undignified display.

“Ra’s…” Tim shudders, thoughts spinning as he looks down at the green patterned sheets beneath him. The last thing he remembers is the sound of an explosive going off. Dick’s desperate rallying shout while Jason looked at him with resignation in his eyes before hefting his guns for one final charge. Then… nothing. “Ra’s what…”

“Easy, Detective.” The Demon’s Head sounds closer now, “I’m afraid you were badly injured during the course of your last battle, and have been asleep for quite some time.”

“What did you give me…?” Tim grits his teeth as he tries again to sit up. He can see the shapes of furniture, the bright light of what must be a fireplace on the other side of the room. “What happened? Where…” he swallows again, struggling past the tight feeling of dread in his throat. “Where am I…?”

“Safe.” Is the simple answer.

“Safe?” Tim repeats incredulously. He shakes his head, making himself feel even dizzier in the process before his eyes finally manage to focus on the blurred figure walking over to the — bed, he thinks, out of one of the darker corners of the room. The alpha scent in his nose gets stronger, thick and heavy with an undercurrent of rot, and he’s finally able to make out the fuzzy features of Ra’s standing above him. “What are you talking about?”

There’s a smile on his face, calm and self-assured, that Tim doesn’t like one bit.

“You are in Nanda Parbat, Detective.” It’s definitely a bed he’s lying on, Tim thinks, as he tries this time to push himself further away across the mattress while Ra’s sits down beside him. “I had you brought here immediately after the inevitable failure of you and your friends pathetic attempt to escape our coalition. If I had not, you would be dead or in a cell right now, just like the rest of them, and at the mercy of people far less kind than I.”

Tim snorts at the idea of Ra’s being kind, mostly to cover the alarm running through him at the larger implications behind those words. This time he manages to succeed in sitting up by resting his back against the headboard of the bed. It makes him feel a little bit better, a little less vulnerable, not to be lying down in front of Ra’s al Ghul, whose interest in Tim has always made his skin crawl in one way or another.

“Why?” He asks next, still too dazed to be anything but blunt.

Ra’s looks amused by his efforts. “Because unlike the rest of them, Timothy, you have potential that is worth saving. Your death would be a waste, your enslavement to one who doesn’t know your true value even more so.”

_Enslavement?_ Tim’s mind catches onto that word. The rest is nothing he hasn’t heard from Ra’s before, but that word… Now, even more than before, and with the drug slowly withdrawing from his system, his heart starts to race with worry. Not just for himself, but everyone else who had been fighting beside him.

“I already told you, Ra’s, I won’t join you. Not now, not ever. No matter what offer you make.”

“Indeed, I remember.” Still that amusement. “However, as it stands now, your refusal will no longer be an issue between us.”

“What are you talking about?”

His fingers curl in the blankets of the bed, sending twinges of pain running up his arms. His left hand is covered in bandages, and that’s when Tim’s brain deigns to notice that not only has he been stripped out of his uniform, but that someone has dressed him in a set of robes instead. Green robes, just like the bedding, and far more elaborately designed than anything Tim himself would ever choose to wear.

“To put it simply, Detective; you’ve lost. While you were sleeping, you, your friends and family, and every other man or woman on Earth who dares to call themselves a hero was declared an enemy of the state by President Luthor. Persona non grata, if you will. As such, you now no longer have rights that any nation will recognise, no freedoms... Nothing, save those which your new masters give to you.”

“Our new…” His eyes widen with horror as it clicks for him suddenly. “ _No._ No, you can’t—”

“I have waited a long time to call you mine, Timothy.” Ra’s replies, his smile turning to something darker, wickeder. Tim can’t breathe as Ra’s reaches towards him, and though he growls and bares his teeth, his attempt at biting Ra’s’ fingers is effortlessly evaded as they stroke down his cheek and throat before catching at his chin. “And now, at last, we will finally be able to put any pretence behind us.”

“Stop. Don’t touch me, don’t…” Tim tries to push Ra’s hand away from him, but his body is still too weak. All he ends up doing is catching at Ra’s’ sleeve, which he then quickly lets go of as if burnt. “You can’t… you can’t do this.”

Ever since he first caught Ra’s’ attention years ago, Tim has been painfully aware of the man’s intentions towards him. It was obvious, in the way he spoke, in the offers he made. There had been… moments, previously, just like this one, where Ra’s had gotten too close for comfort, but before he’d always had an escape route planned. Before, Tim had always been playing those encounters on his own terms, with the knowledge that should he ever get in over his head, back-up would be on its way to save him.

Here, now, he has no such assurances, and Ra’s knows it.

“Can’t? My dear Timothy,” Ra’s smiles at him fondly, “I think you’ll find that in this new world of ours, there’s very little that I _can’t_ do.”

The terrible thing is, despite how he wants to continue to deny it, Tim knows Ra’s is telling the truth. Even before he ended up here, in the house of his enemy, the world had taken a turn for the worst. Martial law was in force, the media no longer free, but reporting only what the villains wanted the people to hear. From there it wasn’t much of a step to believe that what amounted to slavery was on the cards, at least for those Lex’s new world government considered its enemies.

He swallows hard. “No, I won’t submit to you. I don’t care what you’ve done, what new bullshit laws Lex has passed. I’m not yours, Ra’s. I never will be. None of this has changed that.”

Ra’s tuts at him, as if Tim is an unruly child stomping his foot rather than a grown man with the ability to make his own choices. He leans forward, swiping his thumb over Tim’s lips before he has the chance to muster the energy to attempt another bite, or even a snarl to warn him off.

“Your denial of the inevitable is beneath you. And no matter what you say now, you’ve always known it would come to this. You belong here with me, Timothy, far more than you ever did the riffraff you call ‘friends’. This new reality simply makes it easier on both of us. Now, all that you have to give is mine to take, and when the rightful time comes...” His eyes draw down Tim’s face, lingering on his neck before dropping down lower to his belly. “I will enjoy proving that to you.”

Drugged or not, there’s no way in hell Tim can miss what Ra’s means by that. He shudders, and his stomach twists inside him as he resists the instinctive urge to bring his legs up to his chest in what would be a vain attempt to shield himself against Ra’s attention. “No, you’re sick. Get away from me.”

“Timothy—”

“I said get away from me!” He yanks his head free of Ra’s’ grasp. This time, adrenaline gives him the strength he needs to escape the bed, but in doing so, Tim is also brought face to face with just how badly he’s hurt beneath the covering of the robes he’s wearing.

Pain lances up his back, and it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall. Tim is forced to grab onto a nearby table to support himself, but at least he’s away, even temporarily, from Ra’s.

_God, why?_ he thinks, thoughts spinning in the face of his worst nightmare come true. Why did he have to be born an omega? Why did he ever have to catch the attention of the Demon’s Head? Why did everything, _everything_ , have to go to shit the way it did and leave him in this position. This can’t be it, can’t be the end of him and their cause. There has to be a way out, if only he can find it. He just has to think. Think, think, _think_. And then—

There’s a sigh from the direction of the bed as Ra’s gets to his feet. “My apologies, I can see that you are still not feeling yourself yet. The last dose of sedative my medics gave you must have been stronger than I thought.”

Yeah, right _,_ Tim thinks, as if Ra’s doesn’t know to the exact milligram the dosage of everything in his system right now.

“I’ll give you some more time to adjust.” he continues, with the air of one bestowing a great gift, “As pleasant as this conversation has been, I have another matter I must attend to now. Once the drug finishes wearing off, I expect you will come to terms with your new position far more graciously.”

Tim, still refusing to turn back round to looks at him, hears the sound of his footsteps head towards the door, and for one glorious moment, thinks he’s free of his company. While Ra’s is gone, he can collect himself, come up with a plan. But then, right as it seems he’s about to leave the room, Ra’s suddenly stops.

“Actually, now that I come to think of it, it may be best if you accompany me in this. Doubtless the walk will do more to clear your head than languishing in this room will.”

If Tim didn’t know better, he’d have almost believed that remark was as spontaneous as Ra’s means it to sound.

“What are you—”

He hears the sound of snapping fingers, then, seemingly out of nowhere, there are hands grabbing him by the arms and hauling him to stand up straight from the table. Tim barely has a moment to orientate himself before the two ninjas on either side of him are dragging him forwards, towards the now open door and Ra’s.

He stumbles more than he walks as he’s pulled through the hallways beyond. The sweep of Ra’s cape leads the way through one fire lit corridor to the next. Though Tim tries his best to remember the layout from his previous visits to Nanda Parbat, he can’t track where it is they’re going. Not until he recognises a large pair of double doors ahead of them, which he knows lead directly into the throne room.

_What the hell?_

Before they even get close, those doors swing open. Ra’s strides through them like the king he perceives himself to be, while Tim is dragged after him like the prisoner of war he very much is. Inside, the room is lined with ninjas, Ra’s loyal subjects, who immediately bow their heads to the ground as he walks past.

Tim expects to be dropped down before the dais, but instead finds himself pulled up onto it after Ra’s. He is positioned _beside_ the throne as Ra’s takes his seat, not in front of it.

“Ra’s,” he starts to hiss, because he was right about one thing, the walk here has done wonders to clear Tim’s head. But before he can get another word out, one of the guards beside him knocks Tim’s feet out from under him, forcing him to kneel down painfully on the hard stone floor. Ra’s lifts his hand, and suddenly there are a hundred different pairs of eyes staring up at him.

Tim doesn’t bother looking for anyone friendly or familiar among them. Pru had been his only ally with the League, and the guilt he feels over the death her loyalty to him had earned her is something he will always carry with him.

One absence he does note, however, is that of Talia al Ghul. Going by how obviously important this meeting Ra’s has dragged him into seems to be, he would expect her presence also, and the fact that she’s missing only serves to pull his already shot nerves higher.

There’s something big going on here, there has to be, or Ra’s would never have bothered bringing him along. But what is it?

Then the doors into the throne room open again, and Tim has his answer.

Unlike Tim in his robes, Damian is still wearing his Robin uniform as he’s led forwards towards the throne — though the suit has been ruthlessly stripped of all its weaponry. His legs and hands are bound by chains, which are attached to a collar around his throat, and no less than three heavily armed ninjas surround him on either side. Yet despite that, and the visible bruises covering his face, Damian still holds his head high and proud. His back is straight, and his expression determined as he walks forwards before being brought to a halt, standing ten feet away from them in front of the dais.

“Grandfather,” Tim can’t take his eyes off the teenage boy he calls his younger brother as he speaks. “It seems your hospitality has taken a turn for the worst since the last time I was here.”

Ra’s acts as if he hadn’t spoken, “Damian Wayne,” he says, which sets more alarm bells ringing in Tim’s head than before. It can’t mean anything good that Ra’s has dropped ‘al Ghul’ from Damian’s name. “Grandson, do you know why it is you are here?”

“No, though I’m sure you are about to tell me.” Damian turns his head, looking to Tim instead. He ignores the hundred pairs of eyes radiating disapproval at him to ask, “Drake, are you well?”

“Better than I could be.” Tim manages to say, before a shove from one of the guards warns him to keep quiet. It’s a much better alternative to saying ‘your grandfather intends to rape and claim me against my will sometime in the near future’. Particularly when the man himself is standing right there.

“You are here because the house of your father has fallen. Because those you called friends, family, _allies_ , have been defeated, and are either dead or otherwise in our control.” The gathered crowd does not cheer at Ra’s mention of their victory, only watches intently, hanging onto his every word as he continues to speak. “As are you, my grandson.”

Only someone who knows him very well would be able to pick up on the minute twitch that runs through Damian’s shoulders then. “Is this a trial then, Grandfather? Do you expect me to beg for my life?”

“Trial?” Ra’s looks amused at first, but then he’s shaking his head, and that’s when the blood moving sluggishly through Tim’s body starts to turn to ice water in his veins. “No. I’m afraid your time of trial has already long since passed, Damian. That you are a traitor to the League of Assassins, a traitor to your own blood, the very people who gave you _life_ , is a fact not in dispute. At every turn, you have defied me, refusing the great heritage that was yours to take, and as such, I am afraid I am done with mercy when it comes to you. This is not your trial, Grandson, it is your execution.”

_No._ Tim thinks, then repeats the word out loud when the guards around him abruptly move to shove Damian down onto his knees. “No! Ra’s wait. Ra’s, don’t do this!”

Ra’s ignores him as he begins to strip off the cloak from his shoulders. A nearby servant steps up to take it from him, while another brings forward a sword which Ra’s takes in his right hand, easily sliding the blade free of the scabbard.

In front of the dias, Damian’s face has gone pale. Tim can see his hands clench into fists before him, and yet when he speaks his voice miraculously doesn’t shake. “And you’re even going to do the deed yourself, I see. I’m honoured.”

“Traitor or not, son of my greatest enemy or not, you are still an al Ghul.” Ra’s confirms to him. “As such, no other is worthy of taking your life.”

Desperate to avert this madness, Tim attempts to get to his feet and run forwards. Only he barely makes it a step before the guards are on him, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him back down onto the floor beside the throne.

“Ra’s!” he calls again, “Ra’s, I’m begging you, stop! Don’t do this! I changed my mind, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be yours! Just don’t kill him, please!”

Ra’s pauses, and for a moment Tim thinks there’s hope when he looks back at him, but then he shakes his head instead. “That you will do what I want is not in question, Detective. I have no need to make any bargain with you.”

He strides forward, the line of the sword glinting in the light of the room as the ninjas force Damian to bow forwards and unlock the collar from around his neck, giving Ra’s more room to deliver a clean stroke. Tim desperately shouts again. Begging him over and over to stop as he struggles against the hold of his captors, cursing his weakened body more with every passing second.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. It can’t, it can’t, it—

“Do have any final words, Grandson?”

Damian snarls, raising his gaze once to look at Tim, then Ra’s, before his head is forced back down. “Only this: you are a monster, Grandfather, and if I die today, at least I die knowing that your arrogance has already sown the seeds of your own destruction.”

Ra’s is still for a moment, an unknown expression on his face before he shakes his head and raises the blade of the sword upwards in both hands.

“Then you die a fool.”

“NO!”

The sword arcs downwards. A single beautiful flash of metal striking off firelight before the blade finds its target.

After that, all Tim remembers is blood, and the sound of his own horrified screaming before someone slides a needle into his neck and knocks him out again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally here with an update to this monstrosity. Specific warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes. Enjoy!

The next day, Dick is surprised when Slade lets him out not just of the restraints, but the room as well.

He sits up slowly on the bed, feeling all the various ways his body aches from the beating that was delivered to it anew, and looks suspiciously at the open space of the door where Slade is standing. “Is this a trap?”

Slade lifts his eyebrows at him. “A trap? Kid, please. What would be the point? You can barely stand at the moment, let alone run.”

Dick bites his lip as that’s pointed out to him. The flash of angry resentment accompanying the reality of it serving no purpose except to make him feel more miserable about his situation. He’s always hated it when Slade is right, now even more so than before.

Standing up takes time, and effort. He hisses audibly at the pain from his ribs — cracked, Slade informed him earlier — and hangs onto the bedside table as a means to support himself until he’s sure he’s stable, before hobbling forwards with one hand kept on the wall. The collar is a disturbing new weight around his neck, and there’s a sore spot on the inside of his thigh close to his groin that he can’t remember being there before Slade knocked him unconscious.

He doesn’t want to think too hard about that new pain’s origins. The same as he doesn’t want to think about any of the events of the last twenty-four hours. Or even the past month.

“You know,” he mutters as he reaches the door, head turned aside to avoid Slade’s scent the best he can, “this would be easier if you gave me a cane or something to lean on.”

“Why, so you can try and hit me with it?”

“I’m injured, remember?” Dick retorts. “Why would I do that?”

Then he makes it through the doorway onto the landing where there’s a window, and understands at once why Slade was so willing to let him out here.

Dick stares out at the wilderness beyond the window in a confused daze. Past the line of the house, all he can see is row upon row of tall pine trees and snow, and further past them still, the tumultuous rise of mountains.

“Slade,” he asks dizzily, forgetting the previous topic of conversation entirely, “where are we?”

He feels Slade’s hand close around his bicep, before he tugs him further down the hall. “Somewhere you won’t be able to get yourself into trouble while you get used to the new status quo, kid. Now come on, you still need to make it down the stairs.”

No way was Luthor keeping him in the mountains wherever he was imprisoned before. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say he was probably in Metropolis, Luthor’s home territory and the center of his power. Which just goes on to beg the question, how long did Slade keep him unconscious to reach a place so remote? Are they even still in America?

He can’t think. It’s hard to stay focused with the painkillers in his system, and Slade’s grip remains unyielding as he keeps Dick moving forward, towards a set of narrow, rustic looking wooden steps leading downwards.

Seeing them gives him a second’s pause, remembering the agonising climb upwards from his cell back in Luthor’s place, but Dick grits his teeth. No more weakness. He can do this.

Slade has to let go of his arm. The steps aren’t wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. But he remains a constant presence at Dick’s back, and the further down he goes, the more clear it becomes to Dick that Slade’s alpha scent is woven throughout the entirety of the house.

The ground floor is much more open than the upper. A large living room, and a kitchen over to the side, as well as other doors leading to other rooms Dick can only guess the purpose of right now. The wide television on the wall is off, but there’s a fire burning in the hearth as he hobbles over to the nearest couch and collapses down with a groan upon it.

Slade was right. Even this short journey has drained him of his energy, he really isn’t going anywhere by himself. At least not yet.

“Stay there. I’ll get us some coffee,” Slade says, once he’s sure Dick’s settled down and not liable to fall.

“I’d rather you get me a ride out of here.”

“Not going to happen, kid.”

“Slade, c’mon,” he tries to reason with him, “this is crazy, you have to see that.”

Slade turns round and narrows his eye at him. “We’ve already been over this, kid. Don’t make me repeat myself again. You belong here with me now, accept it, or you’re only going to make this much harder on yourself in the long run. One more word about leaving, and I will lock you back up in that room.”

The threat makes Dick bite down on the next thing he wants to say. He clenches his hands together in his lap, squeezing them as tight as he’s able to channel stress and anger that has no other outlet. His bruised knuckles ache in protest against the treatment.

He doesn’t reach for the coffee cup when Slade sets it down in front of him, just keeps his eyes fixed on Slade himself when he takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch. Still too close for Dick’s liking. He hasn’t forgotten Slade’s words about claiming him, in every way possible.

“You have questions.”

“Where are my brothers?” That’s the first thing Dick needs to know, before anything else. “And the other people I was with when we were captured.”

Slade scratches his chin, fingers dragging underneath his beard. “I can’t speak for all your group, but I do know that the Drake kid and Wayne boy were snatched up by Ra’s al Ghul before they ever saw the inside of one of Luthor’s cells.”

Liquid nitrogen streams its way through Dick’s gut. “And… and Jason?”

“Still in Luthor’s hands. No one’s stepped up to take him yet.”

“But he’s alive?”

“Yeah, kid,” Slade says a little more gently, “he’s alive. Liable to stay that way too, don’t worry about that.”

 _Don’t worry_. How can Dick do anything but worry? His two youngest brothers are in the hands of Ra’s al Ghul, one of their greatest enemies, and Jason is sat in a cell, waiting for someone to step up and buy him like property so they can do who knows what to him.

Jesus, at least he knows Ra’s has some value for Tim and Damian’s lives (maybe a little too much, when it comes to Tim, though that’s a whole other can of worms Dick doesn’t want to open right now). Jason on the other hand… Slade had accused Dick of being liable to get himself killed out of spite, but Dick knows in that regard Jason is far worse than him. He won’t be able to stop himself from mouthing off to the guards on his jail cell, or anyone else for that matter. And if he says the wrong thing to the wrong person…

“You can’t know that. If things are really as bad as you say, they could—”

“They won’t. Trust me.”

“But Slade—”

“He’s a Bat, kid. Like you. Someone will want him.” Slade sets his own cup down on the table beside the couch, and then says, even softer, “And he’s more than that. As an omega he’s valuable; you know that.”

Dick feels the world stutter around him. Blink in and out. As if for a moment his brain couldn’t handle the reality of what Slade just told him. What it means for Jason, and for — _Tim_.

“I have to get him out of there,” he hears himself saying, dimly, as if from a distance. “I have to… Tim and Damian… I have to save them… I have to…”

Slade’s hand planting itself in the middle of his chest and pushing him firmly back is the first thing to clue Dick into the fact he’d attempted to stand up at all.

“Let go of me!”

A growl works its way free of his throat, but the one Slade releases in return is far more intimidating. “No. Kid, you _can’t_ help them, and you _will_ die trying. You’re staying here.”

“After what you just told me?!” He stares incredulously, then snarls. “ _No_. Go to hell, Slade. I can’t abandon them. I _won’t_.”

“You’ll do whatever I tell you to do.” Dick can feel the steel strength of Slade’s arm pressing him back deeper into the couch as he bares his teeth, “Or haven’t I made your position here clear to you?”

“I am not your God damn property!” _And you are not my alpha._ The only man Dick called alpha is dead, gone, as much as it still wounds him to accept that fact. Now it’s up to Dick to protect what’s left of his pack, his _family_. No matter what sacrifices he has to make in the process.

Even at the cost of his own life.

Incensed, and desperate, he doesn’t hesitate in pulling back his arm and taking a swing at Slade’s face.

The blow connects, maybe because Slade lets it more than Dick actually manages to take him by surprise. The moment of satisfaction he gets from the hit is short-lived, however, as Slade’s scent thickens in the air along with his anger, and the hand he has pressed against Dick’s chest leaps up to his throat.

The coffee cup on the table shattering is a distant background noise as Slade drags him off the couch and onto the floor. Dick feels pain ricochet across his back and ribs at the impact. His breath knocked out of him because of it, even before Slade’s weight drops down across his torso, pinning him down.

God, it hurts.

Lurching back up as much as he can, Dick lashes out again. Both fists this time, a left cross followed by the right. He’s slow though. Far slower than he should be, and the bones of his wrists grind together when Slade grabs them without letting the blows connect.

“ _Enough!_ ” he growls. “Think about what you’re doing, kid. You can’t win this.”

Dick hisses as his hands are slammed down against the floor. Every instinct is telling him to give up, lie down and be quiet to appease the powerful and angry alpha above him, but the mix of pure fury and fear he feels over his brother’s fates is still too strong to allow Dick to give up so easily.

So instead of surrendering, as would be smarter, Dick instead his strength to spit up at Slade, a vicious, “Fuck you!” on his lips instead.

Slade’s eye narrows. “Fine. Then I guess we’re doing it the hard way after all.”

Before Dick can even begin to parse what Slade means by that, he’s acting, transferring the separate grips he has on both of Dick’s wrists to one hand. Then — with disturbing ease — flips him over so that Dick’s laying on his stomach between his legs instead of his back.

This time, the cold twist of fear Dick feels in his gut is for himself, not any of his brothers. There’s only a few reasons for Slade to force him into this position.

“Wait,” he gulps, yanked back to rationality by the feeling, “Slade, wait. Don’t... don’t do this. Slade!”

“I warned you, Grayson.” Slade’s other hand, the one not pinning Dick’s wrists to the floor, slides up to the back of his neck, parting his hair and pushing his face firmly down against the rug beneath them. “And one way or another, you are going to learn to do what I tell you to do.”

The collar bites more sharply into the base of his neck like this, but somehow there’s still plenty of room for Dick to feel the hot rush of Slade’s breath against his skin when he bends down over his back. The brush of teeth against his flesh before they fully, firmly sink in.

After that, all other words fail him.

A dozen different fights where Slade’s threatened this before, and not once did he ever follow through. Not until now, and it’s this, more than anything else, that drives home the point to Dick about the new reality he’s living in. Things have changed. _Slade_ has changed, and this isn’t a game between them anymore.

Despite his best efforts, Dick fails to hold back the submissive whine that rises in his throat. To stop his limbs — his entire body — from going limp beneath the alpha at his back. Instinct, surrender in one of its most traditional forms, steals all the fight from him in favour of a haze of submission, and he shivers at the strength of it. As Slade sinks his teeth in even deeper, worrying his neck above the collar until Dick feels the skin break and blood starts to run out from the wound.

Only then does he finally let go.

“There now,” Slade murmurs, releasing his wrists and his head in the same movement. “That’s better.”

Despite the sudden freedom of movement offered to him, Dick doesn’t move. He can’t. Not with his—with Slade still looming over him, and the raw newness of his enforced superiority beating at the inside of his skull.

“Better…” he whispers, before swallowing hard. “Better for you, maybe.”

“For both of us, kid,” Slade corrects him, before reaching down to card thick fingers back through Dick’s hair in a calming motion that ends with them resting across the back of the bite mark on his neck. “You just don’t see it yet.”

He can’t rise, and maybe that’s better because Slade doesn’t move yet either, fingers lingering on the back of his neck, weight a solid, immovable pressure across his hips. He’s intimately aware of the slow slide of blood down the side of his neck, and how his every breath shifts the fingers over his spine and smudges that blood against his skin.

Finally Slade pulls away, leaving him against the floor with one final touch of fingertips to the base of his skull. “I’ll make breakfast. When you’re ready to join me, feel free.”

Dick draws in on himself as Slade’s footsteps round the couch, heading towards the kitchen. He can’t bring himself to move for a long, long time.

* * *

Jason knows something is up the moment they drag him out of his cell, hose him down in what counts for a shower in this place, then return him to it; the chain tethering his ankle to the wall shortened by at least three feet.

From what he can tell by counting his meals, he’s been here almost a week. In that period, there’s been a steady procession of visitors to his cell. All of them villains, some big time, others small, and all of them notably interested in one thing. The speech Luthor gave him on the first day he woke up here had made that clear to Jason, though he would have had no problem deducing the purpose the man intended him for by himself even without his help.

It had been obvious from the first lascivious slide of eyes down his body. The first comment (“What d’you know, he is pretty after all.”) his initial visitor made. A visitor who had regretted his comment five seconds later, when Jason lunged forward in an attempt to tear his throat out. If it weren’t for Luthor’s men getting in the way he would have succeeded too.

That alpha, and every subsequent one after him, Jason has managed to chase away; proving himself as an omega who’s not worth the trouble while he continues to search for a way to escape. But he’s well aware that he’s running out of time. Sooner or later there is going to be some alpha who wants him regardless of his aggression (that’s if Luthor doesn’t get fed up of holding onto him first).

By the looks of things, today may very well be that day.

He waits, choosing to sit against the wall of his cell with his arms wrapped around his knees as the minutes past by. Appearing vulnerable at first has lured more than a few alphas into striking distance, he’s not about to give up on the tactic now.

Then the door to Jason’s cell opens, and his week goes from disastrous to downright catastrophic in the space of a second.

“Well, now. Would you look what we have here,” Roman Sionis says cheerfully, following four dark suited bodyguards into the cell. “The Red Hood, all trussed up with nowhere to go.”

“Mask,” Jason replies through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, sitting on the floor doesn’t feel like such a good idea anymore and he scrambles to his feet. Sionis and he have history; the man is wiser to his tricks than most. Jason knows that the act that fooled so many others won’t have a chance in hell of working on him.

“What’s the matter, Jason?” Roman’s smile is visible through the zipper of the black leather mask. The rank smell of him filling the air in the cell and overpowering even that of the combined bodyguards. The man always did give off fumes like a damn chimney. “You don’t seem very happy to see me.”

“You and your tired old bad guy one liners.” He resists the urge to snarl, just barely. He has to play this smart, because Roman is one alpha he definitely doesn’t want to go home with. “What do you want?”

He may not be able to see the progress of Roman’s eyes down his body, but he can feel it. This time, it’s a repulsed shudder Jason is fighting to repress.

Okay. Dumb question.

“I’ve come to take you home, Jason,” Roman says, sadistic delight at his discomfort dripping from every word. “Luthor’s getting bored of paying for your upkeep. He asked me real pretty-like to come and take you off his hands.”

“You mean after the ten other alphas before you,” Jason can’t help but snap. "Sounds like he's dragging up anybody he can think of that I've run into, since no one who actually mattered was interested." Maybe that isn't the smartest tactic, but he's not quite settled on what to do yet. Roman's got enough pride for a dozen alphas, and that's definitely one way to get at him, but Jason doesn't know if that will actually make him give up. He... never really figured out what _could_ make Roman give up, honestly.

The bastard was always tenacious.

Roman’s eyes narrow through his mask. “I see you still got a mouth on ya. That’s good, means I can have fun teaching you to shut up.” He jerks his head in signal to the heavies that accompanied him into the cell. “Hold him.”

This part, Jason has a much better idea of how to respond to. He adjusts his stance, teeth bared as the first comes towards him.

He gets two of them on the ground before the other two dogpile him. One gets a knee to the gut from his free leg; the other has to elbow him in the side of the head before they can get him to let go of how far his teeth have sunk into an arm. It’s enough to stun him, and enough time for them to wrench his arms out and drag him forward until the chain on his ankle goes taut. His hips hit the ground, free leg bending to try and brace or get _anything_ , but his foot just slides across the concrete. His shoulders burn as they straighten his arms out and kneel to either side of him, keeping his chest suspended a few inches above the ground.

Jason snarls and twists his arms, jerking against them, but whatever their IQ may be they’re big and strong and he’s not going anywhere. Not without something drastic happening, anyway. ‘Something drastic’ is basically every interaction he’s ever had with Roman though, so maybe that’s not far away.

He lifts his head at the click of footsteps, spitting blood onto the floor as he glares at the shiny black dress shoes circling around him.

“Couldn’t take me down yourself, huh? Had to use your goons to do it.” Jason pants, swallowing as the footsteps stop. “Some alpha you are.”

“Don’t worry, princess, you and I will get our fun together soon enough.”

Jason jolts as a knee lands in the middle of his back, then a hand in his hair. Roman is rough as he yanks his head up and to the side, forcing bone and muscle to a position it was never meant to be in.

“The fuck are you doing?!” he grunts out. Foul breath graces the side of Jason’s neck, and his struggles resume as he realises what’s about to happen. “No, stop!”

“Easy, baby, how’s anyone supposed to know you belong to Daddy if I don’t mark you up?”

 _Daddy?_ Jason thinks incredulously. It’s the last thought he has time for before Roman’s teeth come down in a hard snap through his flesh.

Despite his resolution not to scream for any of these fuckers, now he cries out in shock. It’s not the pain of the bite itself, but where it is, and how deep it goes. A bite like that on the neck, meant to scar, it… it only means one thing. This is not a temporary thing, and Roman is not planning on letting him go. Ever. (Thank fucking god that Roman can’t legitimately mate him without him actively taking part in it all, because he’s starting to think that if the bastard _could_ …)

He’s pretty sure that when the teeth come out they take at least a little of his _neck_ with them, and he grits his own teeth together to not give the satisfaction of another cry, his breath whistling between the gaps as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. It hurts like a _bitch_ ; no one’s ever managed to get teeth on his throat before with the exception of Bruce, and Bruce never really bit down. It was a threat, not a claim or a fucking _attack_ like this is. He can hear the droplets of blood hitting the concrete. He forces his eyes open when Roman lets go of his hair, letting his head drop back down to a more natural angle.

“That’s better.” Roman’s fingers, gloved, press into the bite and Jason jerks with the pain of it. Not as hard as he jerks when he feels a tongue lap over the wound, and then there’s a drawled, “No more masquerading as an alpha, Jason. I’m going to make sure that everyone who looks at you knows just what you are. An oversized, scarred up, omega bitch.”

The man and his _goddamn sexism_. (His mind clicks a few pieces together, past the pain. No bite of the zipper around those teeth, or the tongue; the _bastard’s_ face is uncovered.)

“I’m going to have a lot of fun teaching you your place, princess. Right under my _heel_.”

Jason doesn’t give warning, he just _snaps_ his head back with as much force as he can manage and _cracks_ it into Roman’s face. There’s a yelp of pain, a sudden lack of pressure against his back as Roman reels away. He twists his head to keep track, snarling at both the goons and Roman himself— drawn off to one side, hand to his face and black skull of a face leaking a brighter red from a nose so non-existent Jason doesn’t think it could actually be broken. Fucking shame.

He doesn’t think it’ll get him anywhere, but Jason still twists his wrists against the hold of the thugs as he bares his teeth and growls up at Roman with as deep and as dark a tone as he can manage. It’s lower than he’s heard most alphas ever get to. “I’m not one of the heroes Luthor’s got in here, Roman. You give me half a chance and I’ll rip your _fucking_ throat out; you’d better remember that.”

Roman’s eyes narrow. “Yeah?” He straightens up, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket with a flick of motion and holding it up to his nose. “I don’t think you get your position yet, Jason. You want to play rough, baby? Alright, we’ll play rough.”

He feels the impact first; reinforced toes of a not-standard dress shoe against his upper right, outstretched arm. Then the shock of it reverberates up through his shoulder and to the base of his skull, registering at about the same moment that the _snap_ of sound does, like a branch being cracked in two over someone’s knee. But it takes a moment, and the _sight_ of it from the corner of his eye, before the pain hits and he realizes the kick _snapped his arm._

Jason _screams_ , the sound tearing free from his throat before he can even think to stifle it. He’s had bones broken before, and plenty of them, but not like this. This isn’t just a fracture, his arm is bent completely the wrong way. He can see the white of bone emerging from red torn flesh, hear the sound of more blood hitting the floor. As soon as the last of the scream fades from his throat, Jason vomits, unable to fight the bolt of nausea stabbing through his stomach.

The man holding his right arm makes a disgusted noise and lets go.

“Jesus,” Roman sniffs, “What a mess. You’re lucky I’m on a schedule, princess. Otherwise I’d be making you clean that up.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t, thanks to another wave of sickness sweeping over him. Breathing on its own is hard enough, as the resulting free fall of his right arm into gravity’s clutches has only made the agony worse. If it weren’t for the other alpha still hanging onto his left side he’d be completely on the ground right now. Most likely face first in the puddle of his own puke. To make matters worse, a wave of dizziness arrives to hold the hand of the nausea, and Jason blinks in a futile attempt to get the room to stop spinning.

There’s a small chance he might be going into shock.

Roman says something else, but Jason can’t make out the words. The tight pressure around his ankle disappears, and he whimpers when he’s hauled upright, forced to stand with his good arm around one goon’s shoulders while red continues to run down and drip onto the floor from the other.

Someone steps in front of him. Roman probably. More words, then his head is forcibly pulled back by his hair. Jason can feel himself shivering, shaking; sweat dampening his hair. The sheer horror of his broken arm overpowers almost everything else, but not the cold snap of metal fastening around his throat.

It’s the last thing he feels before Roman, grinning, pats him on his injured shoulder and he blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Blood, biting, broken bones, implied threats of rape/torture.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the angstiest AU for you all today. Hope you enjoy!

“It’s your move, Detective.”

Tim stares down at the chessboard in front of him. Five days have passed since the execution. He feels empty, drained; he hasn’t slept since the first morning he woke up in Ra’s care, not without being drugged anyway. Every time he attempts to close his eyes he sees it again. Damian’s defiant look, paired with the fear in his young eyes; the flash of the sword, the blood… the sound of his head hitting the—

Underneath the table, Tim clenches his hands tighter together in his lap, causing the chain attaching them to the wood to rattle slightly. At the same time, his stomach twists, wanting to throw up food he hasn’t eaten.

“Timothy?” Ra’s asks, raising an eyebrow at the sound.

As much as he would rather do anything but, Tim knows he has to respond.

“I’m tired, Ra’s,” he tries, mustering the response from the corners of his brain that are still trained by Bruce. Still Red Robin, despite his circumstances. “I don’t want to play this game right now.”

Ra’s isn’t off put by his words. If anything, he only seems mildly amused. “Nonsense. You have sat idle in your room too long already. Chess is good for the mind, Detective, and the soul. _Play_.”

Tim grits his teeth. He can’t control the reaction as he glares down at the board.

Ra’s’ amusement grows. “You are angry with me.”

“What gave it away?” Tim can’t stop himself from spitting, “After what you did—”

“Damian’s death was not my fault, Timothy, as much as you would like to think so.”

“What?” Tim says incredulously. He can’t believe what he just heard. “I was there! I saw _you_. I saw you swing the sword! I saw you condemn him in front of the entire League! You can’t for one second pretend that his death wasn’t your doing!”

“No,” Ra’s says patiently, unaffected. “It was yours.”

Tim is stunned. More words fail him as he stares at Ra’s.

“Allow me to rephrase. It was your family’s fault. Yours and Wayne’s and Grayson’s. All of you who willingly chose to lead my grandson astray from his birthright.” Ra’s continues, in increasingly clipped tones. “Damian’s fate was simply a natural progression of those actions. Had you not done what you did, he might still be alive today.”

“You…” Tim chokes on the words, “You… you really believe that, don’t you? You’re actually insane enough to think… No. No! You’re the one who killed him, Ra’s. You and no one else.”

“I gave him the chance to come back to me. Multiple times.”

“You don’t _kill_ someone because they leave you!” Tim attempts to push back his chair, but the chain at his wrists draws tight and he can’t even get far enough to have more than a foot between him and the table. Ra’s watches him with that same idle amusement, green eyes giving away nothing except his enjoyment of the situation. “You can’t seriously blame us for his death because he chose not to be like _you._ You were going to wear him like some kind of suit!”

Ra’s arches an eyebrow. “If a dog is rabid, who do you blame? The dog? The one required to put the animal down out of mercy? Or do you blame the owners that let the dog become infected in the first place?”

“Damian wasn’t a dog!”

The amusement turns to subtle derision, as Ra’s leans back in his own chair and flicks a careless hand towards him as if dismissing the entire subject. “He came to heel well enough for you and yours; he may as well have been. I have uses for loyal creatures that will play fetch and bark on command, but those uses do not include succeeding me as Demon’s Head. You blame me for events that you set in motion, Timothy. You took his life when you took his teeth; I only followed through on the path you set him on.”

“You’re insane,” are the only words that Tim can find to breathe out, staring with wide eyes. He knew, but he’s not sure he really _knew_. That Ra’s could be so delusional as to just reorder the world around him to fit his own views, and expect Tim to _believe_ it…

“Name-calling is beneath you, Detective. Come, let’s set aside this discussion for now; it’s upsetting you.” Ra’s hand gestures towards the game, accompanied by a small smile. “Play. I’m prepared to grant you gifts if you happen to win, if that incentive interests you.”

Tim swallows down his own horror, hands trembling in his lap. He doesn’t know whether he hates it more or less that Ra’s is so _graciously_ ignoring the faint rattling of the chains holding him here. “Define ‘gifts,’ “ he demands, or tries to. His voice comes out weaker than he expects.

If Ra’s thinks ‘gifts’ is strange clothing or food or the increase of his attention, he’s not interested. But there’s a chance that this is more straightforward than that, and maybe Ra’s will bribe him to play along with something that he actually wants. Like a real shower, instead of being mysteriously clean when he comes out of drugged sleeps, or maybe being let outside to see the _sky_. (If he’s outside, maybe he can pinpoint exactly where he is and make some attempt at escape.)

Ra’s smile twists to something a bit more self-satisfied. “Information, Timothy. What else is of worth?”

“Information…? Like what?” Dealing with a practically literal demon; he has to be sure, has to know exactly what he’s getting out of this. No loopholes. No unforeseen consequences.

“Your family,” Ra’s says, as idly as if he’s commenting on the weather. Like the idea of Ra’s knowing more about his family than he does doesn’t freeze up his guts. “Win a game, and I’ll tell you a piece of information about your family that you don’t know. Their fates, health… current information, more or less. I could even give you information about your ‘friends’ too; those young heroes you teamed with at times. Would you like to know about them?”

 _Conner_.

He tries to be careful about his expression. If Ra’s knows how much he values any information about the rest of his family, or of his friends (and more than friends)… That can’t happen. God knows what else Ra’s will try and demand from him if he really understands.

Tim doesn’t respond, and Ra’s smiles. “Play, Timothy.” He sounds like he’s sure he’s already won, but that’s not exactly unusual. “If you’re interested.”

Simmering with bitter resentment, but with very little to lose in this situation (and everything to win), Tim forces himself to reach forward, selecting one pawn among many and moving it a single space. Of course Ra’s allowed him to play with the white pieces, and in chess white always moves first.

“Very good.” Ra’s praises him for his decision, making Tim’s skin crawl. “Now,” he takes one of the black pawns and sets it forward two squares, “Let’s see how well you do.”

It’s not as well as he’d like. Ra’s has been alive centuries, has probably been playing chess for most of them, and Tim knows he’s smart but smart just doesn’t do it when you’re up against that much practice. Ra’s beats him handily the first game. And the second. He doesn’t win until the fourth, and even that feels like just barely scraping through the teeth closing around him. Teeth that are still looking to sink into his neck, and he doesn’t know when they’ll actually bite down, only that he’s sure they will. It’s like a guillotine hanging over his head; one that’s sure to fall the moment he lets his guard down.

Ra’s actually looks pleased at his victory, and no less so than he did the three times before that Tim’s been beaten. Like the completion of the game is pleasure enough, regardless of outcome. “Well done, Timothy. It’s good to see proof that your mind is still functioning.”

Tim watches as Ra’s resets the pieces with a deft hand. There’s no words given to him, no gift or reward like he was promised if he did this and Tim has to fight not to grit his teeth. No, of course not. Ra’s would never be _easy_.

“Again, Timothy?”

“You promised me information,” he points out, trying to keep his tone calm and not show any of his frustration or irritation.

“I did,” Ra’s agrees, replacing the last couple pieces and then meeting his eyes. “Pick a subject then; anything you like.”

Conner is the first thing that comes to mind, but Tim bites down on that impulse. This is a game as much as the board between them, and one of the fastest ways to lose is to let Ra’s know what he cares about the most. _Who_ he cares about the most. Especially knowing what Ra’s’ designs are in regards to him and what he might do to any… competition. Anyone that might have some kind of claim to his heart is probably in real danger of getting skinned alive. He has to be careful showing his priorities.

“My family,” he says, deciding that’s safe enough. _Broad_ enough. Whether that’s information about Bruce, or Dick, or Barbara, or anyone else in their group, it will still be something that he wants to know.

Ra’s’ smile is too sharp to mean anything but cruelty. “Your parents are still alive; they aren’t considered a threat by anyone important enough to matter.” Tim blinks, feeling like the rug just got swept out from under him even though he was _trying_ to stop that, and Ra’s smiles wider. “This once, Timothy, I will grant you an answer about the things you were truly wanting to know, despite your faulty phrasing in asking. Don’t expect me to cater to your mistakes in the future.”

Tim doesn’t answer that, even though he wants to. He wants that information, and if he’s not careful Ra’s will yank the chance right out of his hands and call it some kind of ‘punishment.’

“You know the fate of my grandson, of course,” Ra’s says, as flippant as if he’s talking about some sort of distant car crash or something and not the personal decapitation of a family member. Tim carefully doesn’t clench his hands. “You also know that the Detective is dead; that was before the end of your little ‘final stand.’ I doubt he’ll find some way to return to life this time, despite your family’s apparent gift at that. My grandson certainly won’t be returning; I’ve safeguarded against such things, naturally.”

One hand ends up in a fist, but he keeps it still, keeps it on his lap and out of sight. It’s just taunting. Ra’s is just rubbing his face in the horrors he already knows to mess with him; the less reaction he gives, the more likely Ra’s will move on. Hopefully.

Ra’s smiles. “Still so many others to choose from. Let’s start with… Todd, shall we? He’s alive; Luthor captured him shortly after I claimed you.” Tim feels his shoulders ease just a little, relief seeping out from the tight ball in his chest that’s been all he’s been able to carry since this all started. Which is of course when Ra’s adds on, “He was nearly executed, but Roman Sionis eventually stepped forward to take ownership of him. I’ve heard they have quite the history together; the reduced price must have been worth the opportunity to… let’s say ‘even the score,’ shall we?”

Roman Sionis. Roman— _Black Mask_. Black Mask has Jason. Oh _god_. With the mess of what Jason’s done to him in the past; the dismantling of his empire when he first came back, the fights and direct use of him as a pawn in his war on Bruce… Then the more recent time, going undercover with him, taking his weapons and once more pulling his crime empire down around his ears from the ground up.

Jason’s always been aggressive, but Tim can’t imagine that helping in this case. If Roman is half the sadist Tim thinks he is, Jason’s going to get ripped into bloody pieces before the month’s through. God knows if he'll survive even that, and Tim has a niggling thought worming in among the rest that maybe Jason might be better off if he doesn't. Death within a month might be better than trying to handle whatever a full-blown sadist can throw at him for… God knows how long.

“It’s your move,” Ra’s prompts, and there’s a smug, pleased undertone to his voice that Tim bridles at, recoiling slightly on automatic and pulling the chain around his wrists tight against the table.

“The others?” Tim asks, pushing for more, for _anything_.

Ra’s smiles. “Win another game, Timothy. A victory, for a fate. It will do you good to sharpen your skills.”

Tim grits his teeth, but breathes out as slowly as he can manage and starts the stupid game.

It would all be less painful if Ra’s wasn’t so clearly better than him at this. He can’t judge time, not with his cell’s lack of windows, or clocks, but it must be hours that they play. He loses, over and _over_. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow and drawn out and with _just_ enough hope of winning that it’s all the worse when Ra’s takes his king yet again. He loses count of the games, ignores the increasing stiffness of his back from sitting for so long and the growing gnaw of hunger in his stomach. Brushes aside how thirsty he gets, and refuses to ask Ra’s for anything that might ruin his chances of just one, more, _game_.

(For all he knows, this is the only chance Ra’s will ever give him. He has to keep trying until that opportunity is gone.)

He doesn’t quite believe it until right up until the last second, when he finally wins. Not until Ra’s reaches forward, with that seemingly permanent smirk, and knocks over his own king with the tip of one finger. Tim’s breath comes sharp and relieved, and he can’t quite stop himself from sinking back against his chair, his head dipping as he stares at that downed king.

He’s won. He’s _won_.

Ra’s gives him several slow claps, the sound echoing in the room and the first making him flinch just a touch. “There we are, Timothy. I knew you were capable of victory if I simply gave you enough chances. Exercising your mind was certainly better than this monotony of idleness you’ve been engaged in, wasn’t it?”

Tim lifts his gaze, the relief still making him shaky, and every other sensation he’s been ignoring catching up to him and worsening it. He hasn’t healed completely, and his back _hurts_. He can’t quite process what Ra’s is saying.

He processes Ra’s’ smile though. "I think we'll call that the final game. You seem disoriented, Timothy; are your injuries giving you any trouble? You really would heal better if you didn't struggle against my medics when they come to tend to you. You're only causing yourself more pain by refusing to cooperate in such a pointless manner."

It takes to the end of the patronizing, slightly disappointed words aimed at him for Tim to register that very first sentence. "The last game?" he echoes, and feels a sharp moment of shock for how tired and pained his voice sounds around the edges.

"Yes." Ra's is reaching forward all the same, resetting the pieces one by one. "I'd hate to see you overtax yourself, Timothy. I am _trying_ to encourage your health, you know, despite how obstinate you seem to allow yourself to fall into ruin."

That's rich. That's—

"You owe me information," Tim says, clinging onto it so he can't forget. That was the last game; this may be the last chance he has to get any sort of information for who knows how long. He can't let it pass by without getting something from it. Without learning— Conner. He has to find out what happened to Conner. (He has to not let Ra's _know_ that Conner is his priority.)

"I do. You're not having trouble thinking of things to ask about, surely?"

Tim ignores the jibe, trying to think of what 'subject' he can ask about to be sure he gets information about Conner. Ra's won't count information that he already knows, he's proved that already, so he just has to narrow the field down to something he knows more about. Asking about the Teen Titans has too many variables; he's friends with all of them and there are just too many people. What other groups does Conner belong to?

Clones? (Not enough of them; too obvious.) Half-breeds? (Again, too obvious.) What about kryptonians? He could probably pass that off as looking for information about some of the most powerful heroes. Maybe looking to see if Clark's somehow come back from his death, or if there are any other kryptonians out there that he could find to help him if he ever escapes. And even more than that, he isn't personally attached to any of them except for Conner, which means that if Ra's is going to choose something specifically to hurt him, it's going to be about Conner. That works, doesn't it?

By the time his mind has run through all of that, Ra's is setting the final few pieces back upright. It only takes a second longer for Tim to decide that the gamble is one he has to take. Maybe his silence will be taken as having to think of the most useful thing to ask, instead of thinking about the right way to ask the thing he wants most to know.

"Kryptonians," Tim says when Ra's sits back in his chair, meeting his gaze with as much evenness as he can currently summon.

"Very well."

Ra's stands, apparently as immune to stiffness as Tim feels vulnerable to it, for how he straightens without a hint of pause. He's on the younger side right now — mid-sixties, maybe, if Tim had to guess at the age that the Lazarus Pit has restored him to — but Tim doesn't feel like that should justify how he just gets up without any issues, adjusting his robes with idle, careless flicks of his fingers. He tries to straighten up in response, to sit a little straighter in his chair, but his back protests and he doesn't make it anymore than a couple inches.

Ra's adjusts a chess piece. A castle. Tim's brain tries to... make something out of that but he forces himself to focus on the words instead.

"Kal-El is dead of course. I imagine you heard the circumstances of that." Yes; caught protecting his family. Lois is dead too, as are Clark's parents. The others... "Your clone subordinate has been reclaimed by Luthor. After all, he was Luthor's creation to begin with; we all thought it was only right that the boy was returned to him. I believe the intention is to reprogram him; Luthor made no fault in creating the weapon itself, only the mind that came with it. He'll fix that soon enough."

It's all flat, said without any true emotional attachment to the events, but Tim feels his stomach drop out from under him. Going back into Lex's lab, facing those scientists and his creators all over again, that's always been one of Conner's biggest nightmares. He must be terrified. As horrified as Tim has felt, having his own nightmare come true. Knowing worse is to come.

Lex and Ra's see them as property, not people. Tim's realizing more and more how true that is with every passing day. They can't be reasoned with; they're not going to stop. Why would they?

There's movement too close to his face, too sudden, and Tim jerks as fingers grasp his chin and tilt it up. The hold is powerful, though, for all that the fingers are thin, and the chain around his wrists draws tight against the table long before his hands can reach the one on his face. Ra's looks down at him with cool amusement, pushing till his head is trapped back over the curve of the chair's back, his jaw held shut more by the angle of fingers into sensitive spots than the actual strength of the grip.

He grunts a protest, but can't really struggle in any way that matters (even being this tense hurts), as Ra's' other hand comes forward and grazes down his throat. Fingers sweep confident and proprietary over the arch of his neck, then up to graze the edge of his ear, to pass a thumb over one scent gland. Tim jerks again, but can't get away from that deceivingly gentle touch, or how it firms to rub just once, confidently and with enough pressure to make him shudder at the little spike of pleasure.

"Easy, Detective. I only desire a bit of scent to carry with me for the rest of my day." Ra's smiles, lifting his hand to pass that thumb beneath his nose, taking a breath in that's slow and obviously pleased. "You are very sweet. I look forward to when I'll claim the rest of what you have to offer. A good thing can't be rushed, after all."

Tim tries to snarl a 'no' out between his teeth, but it comes out unintelligible. Ra's only lowers the hand to brush his hair back, slow and tender and everything fake enough to make his skin crawl.

"I'll send a servant with some food for you. I have other things to attend to, but I may join you for dinner as well, when the time comes. We shall have to see." The fingers graze his throat once more. "Enjoy your day, Timothy. Try not to break yourself any further when my medics come for you, hm?"

He can't answer, but Ra's pats the side of his head like one might a dog and then finally releases him, apparently not caring that he has no response past the sharp breath he drags in.

"And Timothy? Get some rest. You clearly need it."

 

* * *

 

After spending days cooped up in Slade’s little mountain hideaway, Dick is still no closer to figuring out exactly where in the country he is than he was at the start. But at least he knows that he _is_ still in the country, or at least still in North America, largely thanks to the U.S. licence plate on the truck Slade has parked outside, as well as the channels on TV.

He’d tried to steal that truck on his third night here, waiting until the early hours of the morning to sneak out the door and hotwire it. Only to discover that Slade (of course) had foreseen that plan, and taken out the battery from the engine, likely storing it somewhere secure in the house that Dick cannot reach.

Frustrating, but not so frustrating as the way Slade had dragged him back inside the house when he’d found him, shaking inside the cab and with fingers close to frostbitten from the snow. A sharp cuff about the head — along with a disciplinary bite — had followed, before he’d found himself locked back in the small bedroom where he’d first awakened.

It had been two days before Slade let him back out again, and Dick bitterly thinks that he should probably consider himself lucky that his existing injuries seem to have Slade reluctant to really hurt him at all.

The days are long and boring. Watching television (particularly the news right now) only causes him grief, and Slade’s small collection of movies is hardly enough to distract from the constant worry gnawing at the lining of his stomach. Worry for the world. Worry for his family. Damian and Tim with Ra’s, and Jason, lingering in Luthor’s cells. That’s to say nothing of the girls, who he has also heard nothing about.

If something’s happened to Barbara… and Kori. God, _Kori._ His friends. Roy, Wally, Donna, Gar, Victor… what about them?

By the end of the week, he’s almost chewed his nails down to the quick thinking about them. Worn a hole in the floorboards of his room hobbling back and forth while his body heals. He’s never coped well with being cooped up, or injured for that matter. Normally, he would distract himself with exercise, but right now that’s impossible, and it leaves him feeling like he’s going more than a little crazy as a result.

He wants to help. Wants to do _something_ , anything, to stop the madness that’s overtaken the world, but with Slade currently acting as his jailor Dick doubts he’ll be making it out of here anytime soon.

“Stop that,” Slade grumbles at him one afternoon, when he spies Dick biting at his nails again, leg jiggling against the coffee table while he stares at the newscaster currently on the television screen in the lounge. Lies and propaganda, all of it. “You’ll be eating your damn hands next.”

Dick glares at him, but since the initial bite, the throwdown, he’s found it harder to resist doing as Slade tells him. He lowers his hand into his lap and squeezes a fistful of the light sweatpants he’s wearing in it instead. “Don’t want your merchandise to get damaged?” he asks, sarcastically.

The sharp retort he expects in return doesn’t come. Instead Slade gives him a hard look before shaking his head and sinking down onto the couch as well. Dick fights the urge to shuffle down the other end as far away from him as he possibly can. “Give me that.”

“Give you what?”

“The remote.” Slade gestures impatiently.

Reluctantly, Dick hands it over. He’s not surprised when Slade immediately turns the news channel off and starts flicking through the other stations for something else for them to watch. The temptation is strong to limp his way back upstairs to his bedroom, but the prospect of being alone is even worse than spending time with Slade. He’d have no distraction for his thoughts there.

After a few minutes, Slade eventually settles on a football game, and Dick grimaces. Then again, that’s not much distraction either.

Thirty minutes into the play, and after almost as much of Dick’s fidgeting, Slade finally sighs and turns his head to look at him. “Spit it out, kid.”

“What?”

“Spit it out. Whatever it is that’s in your head you want to talk about.”

What’s in his head? Too many things to count. But if there’s even the slightest opportunity to get more information from Slade about what’s happening to the world he has to take it. “You’ll give me answers?” he asks, to be certain.

“Why, do you have questions?” Slade says blandly, apparently just to be an asshole.

Dick glares at him again. “Slade.”

“I gave you them before didn’t I?” Slade rolls his eye when Dick continues to glare at him. “Sure, kid, I’ll give you answers. I don’t know everything, but what I do know, I’ll tell you.”

Still sceptical, Dick eyes him for a moment more, but then he considers the fact that, despite everything, Slade _has_ been perfectly truthful with him so far. There’s no reason to think he’d start to lie now. “Is there anymore news about my family?” he blurts out first, “My brothers, or the girls?”

Slade turns his head away from him, looking back at the game on the screen. He seems to consider the answer for a moment, and Dick has to fight not to squirm impatiently while he waits for it, or demand that he speak now. Slade won’t take kindly to it, he knows that from experience.

“Batwoman’s dead. No news about the other girls. If they’re alive, they’ve gone underground. Anything changes with that, I’ll let you know.”

Dick’s gut clenches at the news about Kate. They were never really close, but he’d fought alongside her. Respected her. She was a good person, she didn’t deserve to die to this horrible regime.

“My brothers?” he prompts again, as soon as he’s swallowed that new grief down.

“Todd’s no longer in Luthor’s cells.”

Dick grimaces. He doesn’t like the sound of that. “Then where is he?”

Maybe it’s just him, but Dick could swear Slade hesitates, just for a moment. “With Roman Sionis.”

_Oh Christ no._

“Roman Sionis?!” Dick shouts, before he can catch himself. “ _Black Mask_ has my brother?!”

“Grayson—” Slade starts to say, finally looking at him again, but Dick isn’t listening. He needs to be up on his feet suddenly. Needs to be _moving_.

“How could they… how could they… he’s a fucking sadist, Slade!” Dick stumbles from the couch to the open square of space between it and the wall hiding the kitchen. “He… do you know his and Jason’s history?! He’ll tear him apart!”

“Kid!” Slade is up on his feet too, stepping carefully towards him. “Kid, you need to calm down.”

“Calm down?” Dick says incredulously, brimming with both anger and dread. It’s like water in his lungs. “How can I calm down when you just told me Jason is with that monster?! When he’s probably going to be—”

“Because what I have to tell you next is worse!” Slade cuts him off sharply, the blade of his voice breaking through Dick’s panic. He freezes on the spot, wavering slightly as his cracked ribs grind together with the heavy force of his breathing. Slade sighs, “And I’d rather not have a repeat of the first day.”

“Worse.” Dick repeats after him. His hands tighten into fists. “What… what do you mean worse?”

“I think you should sit down.”

Dick shakes his head violently. “ _No_. No, just tell me. What could possibly be worse than that _madman_ owning my brother?!”

Is it one of his friends? The Titans, maybe? That’s certainly enough to set his heart racing. But no, wait. He didn’t ask Slade about them. Just his family. It doesn’t make sense to him. How could anything be worse than Jason’s fate, right now? Tim and Damian are with Ra’s, true, but that’s because they hold value to him, which means he wouldn’t do anything too terrible to them, surely.

Then Slade speaks and shatters his world all over again.

“It’s the boy. Damian.” This time, Slade really does hesitate, even looks on the side of genuinely regretful. Dick would marvel at that, if he weren’t so caught by Damian’s name and what comes next. “He’s dead.”

Dick stares at him. His voice is a croak when he whispers, “What… what did you just say?”

Slade keeps his eye on him. Does Dick the courtesy of not looking away. He never did believe in pulling his punches. Never believed that softening the blow did anything but make things worse. “He’s dead, Dick.”

_No._

“You’re lying.” the words fall out of his mouth like a series of ever increasing lead weights. Dick continues to stare at Slade with too-wide eyes and his nails digging into his palms. “He wouldn’t have… they couldn’t have…”

“Kid…”

“He’s thirteen.” His use of the present-tense is thoughtless, natural. “He’s just a… he’s a… a kid, Slade. He’s… he’s Ra’s _grandson_. He wouldn’t have...”

“You know that doesn’t matter. Not to men like Ra’s al Ghul.” Slade doesn’t tell it to him gently, but he isn’t cruel in his delivery either. He speaks the words matter-of-factly, driving home their truth that way. “In his eyes, the boy was nothing more than a traitor. Worse, he was Batman’s own blood. It was too dangerous to allow him to live, and all Ra’s needed to justify his execution.”

“No!” Dick shakes his head. He wraps his arms around himself. “ _No_! No, please no. Please… Slade…” He looks up at him desperately, begging him to take the words back, but he won’t. Dick knows he won’t, just like he knows in his heart that, as much as he wants to deny it, Damian is…

Damian is...

He slides down against the wall behind him, pulling his legs up tightly to his chest as his eyes start to water despite his resolve not to let Slade see his grief.

“... he was just a _kid_.”

Slade approaches him slowly, before sinking down into a low crouch a bare foot away. When Dick sees his hand reaching out towards him, he instantly shies back, despite having no more room to go to. “Don’t touch me!” he whimpers.

Slade grimaces, but otherwise listens, drawing it back again. “I’m sorry. If nothing else, my ears inside the League say it was quick.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?!” Dick asks incredulously. His vision is beginning to blur with tears he can’t contain.

“As opposed to hearing that he was tortured and spent his last hours suffering? Yes.”

“Fuck you, Slade.” Dick winces at the very thought. It hurts to do so, but he curls himself forward over his bent legs anyway, hiding his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around his calves.

 _Damian_. Damian, his baby brother. The boy he’d almost raised alongside Bruce. Tamed from the vicious, cruel weapon Talia and Ra’s had attempted to forge him into, and through weeks and months of effort, drawn out the gentle soul that lay underneath. He loves Damian as much as he’s ever loved anyone or anything in his entire life, and to be told that he’s… that he’s gone. That he’s _dead_...

Dick whines before he sobs. It hurts as badly as it did when his parents died. When he realised Bruce really wasn’t coming back. Like his heart’s been rent in two. Scattered to the winds, never to reform properly again.

And underneath it all, there is anger.

“I’ll kill him.” He chokes against the fabric of his pants. “I’ll fucking… H-he killed Damian! He...”

A broad hand rests heavily in his hair, and he doesn’t have the strength to push it off, too desperate for any form of comfort, no matter its source.

“I know, kid,” Slade says quietly, “I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extreme warning from the start for this chapter, folks. Please check the bottom notes for specifics before reading if you need to.

Jason claws his way awake, fighting for every millimeter that his eyes open with grudging tenacity. It feels like he’s swimming through soup, hardly able to comprehend the locations of his limbs, or even the difference between up and down. It’s a feeling he recognizes, but it takes what might be more than a few minutes for him to remember why.

Roman. His arm.

_His arm._

The light above him is punishingly bright as Jason attempts to turn his head. To resolve the smudged blur of space around him into a shape that makes sense. An insistent beeping off to one side makes it into his ears, which he eventually dully identifies as belonging to some kind of medical machine even before the white walls give him the final clue to his location.

A hospital. Is he really in a hospital? That doesn’t seem right. Why would Roman…

“Well, well, well. Would you look at that? Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.”

Jason wants to tense up at that voice. Wants to be afraid. But everything’s just so damn fuzzy right now. He reaches for the emotion he knows should be there with frenzied fingers, only to find that it keeps slipping out of his grasp even as a gloved hand touches his chin.

Roman forces him to tilt his head up to look at him, and the bright white of the room turns temporarily darker. The sound he makes at the pull must be a whimper, because the next thing Roman does is laugh. “Doc’s got you completely off your tits, huh? Figures. Made a real mess of your arm, so they tell me.” He lets go of Jason’s chin, and there’s a strange new slant to the world as the alpha presumably sits down on the edge of the bed. “Can’t say it’s anything you didn’t deserve, though, baby; mouthing off at me like that. I had to punish you. Just a shame it’s going to take so long for them to fix you up now.”

The hand comes back, this time dragging leather down his face. A finger — no, a thumb Jason thinks, pulls at his bottom lip.

“No rough housing for at least eight weeks, can you believe that? Not if I ever want you to be able to use that arm again.” Roman talks to him conversationally, as if he can respond, but all Jason can do is hiccup helplessly as his mouth is invaded and his tongue pushed down. “Bunch’a quacks, all of them, but I suppose they know their stuff. At least in this.”

The thumb pushes further back into his mouth, threatening to obstruct his airway. Jason wants to push it away, _means_ to push it away, but he just… he just can’t move. His body won’t obey him. Another whine and Roman’s laughing again.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, that doesn’t mean I’m going to neglect you. Daddy’s just going to have to be a little more creative about how we spend the time between now and then, that’s all.” Roman withdraws his hand, and Jason has a sense of him standing up from the bed. He turns his head at the whisper of fabric falling, but still can’t clearly make anything out. “There is one thing I think we can still get away with, though. Just between you and me.”

His… his leg is grabbed. _That’s_ his leg, Jason realises. Grabbed and pushed to one side, then the other one as well. The bed creaks more; a weight looms on top of him, blocking the light. Fabric is pushed up his stomach, then there’s a sound of a zipper drawing down. Jason’s aware of the sound of the beeping machine speeding up in a rapid reflection of his heartbeat; his lungs starting to hyperventilate. His world narrows and constricts even more as he desperately tries to move.

“Shh. Easy, princess.” Jason whimpers again as his throat is grabbed. The first thrust is nothing more than a dull sense of pressure inside him, accompanied by the rancid smoke-laden retch of Roman’s breath in his face as he growls, “Daddy’s gonna take _real_ good care of you.”

“No…” Jason tries to protest, “Stop…” but isn’t sure the words come out as anything intelligible.

Not that it would make a difference if they did.

He can’t parse time. Can’t in any way measure how long it goes on for. Roman’s rutting into his body, the cruelly whispered words of filth in his ear; derogatory names and obscenities of all kinds. The creak of the bed, the incessant beeping of his elevated heart rate. If he could feel, Jason knows it would hurt, but even the numbness can’t stop him from whining, closing his eyes and hoping, wishing someone would come through the door and put a stop to this.

But they won’t. They won’t because there’s no one left. Everyone who could help him, or even care to, they’re all gone. Gone or imprisoned or dead or—

Roman bites his neck when he comes. It’s the one point of pain that breaks through his haze to convince Jason this may not be some hellish fever dream after all, but real. A rattle on his right finally clues him in to his broken arm, suspended in traction, but he’s far more concerned by the inescapable pressure of the knot inside him, tying them together.

“Tears, sweetheart?” Roman says, when he draws back. “Was it that good for you? Or are you just sad it’s over?” Jason flinches at the touch of a finger to his cheek, and Roman chuckles darkly. “Aw, don’t worry, we’ll be spending a lot more time together yet. Tight little bitch like you, how could I ever resist?”

With a supreme effort, Jason turns his face in against the pillow — the only small way in which he can hide from this situation — and prays to pass out again.

 

* * *

 

Tim feels like he’s being put on parade the day Ra’s’ servants show up to dress him for what he’s told will be a restorative ‘walk’ outside the cold depths of Nanda Parbat. They give him sturdy leather winter boots lined with rabbit fur, as well as a thick embroidered cloak and gloves, both of which match the layers of other traditional omega clothing he’s been gifted to wear so far in colour and decoration. It’s heavy and cumbersome, not at all ideal for the acrobatics he’s still probably not healed well enough to pull off effectively — something Tim is certain is at least partly intended in the design.

Ra's, when he shows up, is in matching colors. Tim seethes, but forces himself not to comment on it.

Though he does draw a hard line with an, “Absolutely _not_ ,” when Ra’s moves to take his arm.

“Of course,” Ra’s says after eyeing him for a stomach churning second, wiping away any hint of offense with a casual shrug. “I meant no insult, Timothy. I simply wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be in any danger of falling, given your delicate condition at the moment. The paths of Nanda Parbat can be treacherous to the unwary.”

_Just like its people_ , Tim thinks, clenching his fingers into fists under the shield of his cloak. “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he answers coolly.

“Very well, then. Shall we proceed?”

The first step outside almost blinds Tim with the yellow brilliance of daylight, something he hasn’t seen in almost two weeks. The mountain air is crisp and cool, and — as the cold wind bites at his ears — he finds himself actually grateful for all the layers of clothing he’s wearing after all. Without adequate protection, a man could easily freeze to death within an hour at this altitude.

Still, despite all that, the pleasure he feels at leaving the dreary interior of his new ‘home’ is almost overwhelming. If it weren’t for the presence of the collar around his neck, Tim could almost imagine he’s free again in this moment, observing the beauty of the mountainside by his own choice rather than being forced out here under the watch of his greatest enemy.

Of course, Ra’s is quick to ruin that illusion.

“This way, Detective,” he gestures, towards the line of a path that follows a nearby ridge.

Tim doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow. At least this is an opportunity to get a better idea of the layout of his surroundings, and hopefully for him to start formulating a plan to escape. Thanks to more of Ra’s’ taunting him at chess, he now knows where Dick is (with Slade Wilson, of all people) in addition to Jason and Kon. That’s all the information he needs to find them, provided he can get free first.

After a minute of silent walking, Ra’s begins to talk.

“I thought it would do you good to see this.” With a sweep of his hand, he gestures to the mountain peaks and the snow all around them. Most of Nanda Parbat is subterranean, but some watch posts are built by necessity above ground. “Now that you will be here standing by my side. You should get to know your new home, Timothy, rather than languishing in your bedroom while we wait for those infernal drugs you’ve been taking to work their way out of your system.”

“I think that would be easier if I didn’t always have to go everywhere under escort,” Tim answers sharply, not looking at him. The rather blatant reminder of Ra’s’ end intention for him stings like a bee in his throat, another reminder of how desperately he needs to get out of here.

He’s never particularly wanted children, and the idea of being forced to have them with Ra’s…

Tim forces himself to breathe slow and deep as his stomach clenches. He is _not_ going to throw up here.

Ra’s chuckles softly, “A necessary precaution as of now, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate happening to you, after all. In time, though, I’m certain you’ll come to accept my point of view.”

“Your point of view?”

“That I am doing this for a noble cause. The betterment of this world.”

“By uniting with other despots like yourself to enslave it,” Tim replies bitterly. “Forgive me if I don’t feel the same way, Ra’s.”

Ra’s clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Lex and his ilk are but a means to an end. As soon as they outlive their usefulness I will dispose of them, I assure you.”

Knowing Lex, he probably feels the same way about Ra’s. Tim can only wonder how long it will take them all to start turning on each other now that they’re confident in their victory. “That’s not the part I have the biggest problem with.”

“Humanity cannot be trusted with the world they have been given, Timothy. They have spent their lives contaminating it, polluting it. My cause is a noble one, you will see.”

Tim doubts that very much, but he doesn’t interrupt as Ra’s continues to wax poetic about his goals. Instead, his gaze is caught by something else nearby.

Their path has taken them to what looks like a supply point, and a short distance away from him down the slope, two men in thick winter suits are stood talking by a pair of snowmobiles. In no time at all, Tim finds his attention riveted by them; the opportunity they represent.

It’s not too far. The slope isn’t too steep. If he’s quick enough about it…

Ra’s’ hand touches his shoulder, and that’s all it takes to make Tim react. He shoves away from him before making a run down the hill, eyes fixated on the nearest snowmobile. Ice and snow slide under his heels as he sprints, but they’re close. So _close_. Guarded only by two men.

He can take two men, even in his current state. He just needs to get there. Just needs to—

Something heavy hits Tim’s legs, sending him spinning and then falling, rolling in the snow drift. It gets in his mouth when he cries out, his eyes too. For a few long seconds, all he can see is white. The cumbersome length of his cloak tangles around his legs, along with whatever it is that struck him, and by the time Tim actually draws to a halt he’s coughing, spluttering for air. He tries to push himself up by his elbows, desperately focused still on his plan, but almost as soon as he makes it onto his knees there are hands on him, hauling him back up to his feet.

Ninjas, clad in white to camouflage them against the snow, surround Tim on every side.

Before he so much as gets the chance to estimate how many there are the rope tangled around his calves is being pulled tighter, and other hands drag his arms forwards to lock his wrists into a set of cuffs as well. He struggles, but the ambush does its job well enough to neutralize what little effort he can manage. He costs those responsible a couple bruises, but ultimately he’s trussed and firmly held once again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop a handful of them from starting to drag him back up the slope to where Ra’s is standing, waiting with apparent calm for them to reach him.

Calm mixed with mild disappointment, Tim realizes when he’s close enough to see the expression. As if Tim’s killed his favourite houseplant or something.

“Really, Timothy,” Ra’s starts, in just as condescending a tone as the look, “I’d hoped you had more sense than to take such an obvious lure.”

“Take it as a sign of just how desperately I want to be away from _you_ ,” he spits back, through gritted teeth.

A quick glance down clues Tim in to what it was that felled him. A bolas, wrapped around his calves and now twisted together at the end to secure it. _Shit._ It’s a good thing there was snow to cushion his fall, otherwise he probably would have bloodied his face something fierce on the stone below.

Ra’s’ hand catches his chin, forcing it back up. The look in his eyes is sharper now, more calculating.

“A shame. Just remember, Timothy, what happens next? You brought on yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Tim can’t exactly struggle as he’s dragged along behind Ra’s, two faceless minions holding him by the upper arms and keeping him half aloft as his feet drag across the ground. The bolas is tangled impressively around his calves still, and with his wrists bound and his arms now tied tight to his chest as well he doesn’t have a hope of reaching anything with which to free himself. In fact, the only thing he can do is get a slightly vicious satisfaction out of the idea that the loose pants he’s in are going to be filthy after being dragged along all this old stone, and that’s a lot easier to focus on than the worry of what’s to come.

Ra’s hasn’t been violent with him yet during his confinement, but Tim’s not naïve enough to think that’s going to hold true forever. Maybe this will finally be the breaking point for it (scratch that, this is definitely it, at least in some way. What Ra’s’ idea of ‘punishment’ is though…)

Facing backwards as he is, he can only try and extrapolate where they’re going by what’s passing them by, and he doesn’t have Nanda Parbat memorized nearly well enough to be sure. They’re not heading back to his cell, that’s as much as he can say with decent surety. Well, that as well as that he’s pretty sure they’re not headed down to deep dark dungeons somewhere. No stairs or downward ramps, and the stonework is starting to look _more_ elaborate, not less. Is that a good sign, or a bad one?

Ra’s doesn’t offer any clue as to where they’re headed, and Tim’s not willing to ask. Eventually there’s the sound of a door opening, and as they pass through it the floor changes from stone to highly polished marble, before quickly being muffled by a thick, rich green carpet.

“Up there,” he hears Ra’s say, and the minions abruptly shift directions.

Tim squirms, but it gets him no closer to getting loose from the bonds and exactly no consideration from the two ninjas. The change in direction does get him a look at the rest of the room though; the carpet covers only the empty floor, and doesn’t encroach upon the old, elegant, and large wooden desk with neat piles of paper and various knick knacks that’s the apparent focus of the room. There are glass doors, a balcony and a view of mountains and distant crags that he’d call breathtaking at any other time. Except Ra’s is standing there and that ruins pretty much any view.

He’s hoisted up to ‘stand’ on his legs, balancing precariously for a moment before one of the two subordinates snaps the ropes around his chest with some hidden flick of a blade. They’ve barely even begun to loosen before his arms are being dragged up above his head, leaving him no chance to struggle as there’s the clink of metal against metal and then a distinct click of some kind of latch or lock. They both abruptly let go, and he sucks in a breath as he starts to tilt sideways only to be brought up short by whatever his cuffs are now locked to. His feet are flat against the floor, elbows just slightly bent, and Tim tilts his head back to get a look at what he’s latched to.

It’s what looks like a steel ring at the end of a long cable, which is strung up along the ceiling and then down to a… winch? The chain between his cuffs is locked to it, and he’s not fond of the possible implications here.

Suspension? He can hang for awhile, but it will dislocate his shoulders eventually. That won’t be fun.

Tim doesn’t realize there are latch points on the floor as well until Ra’s flicks a hand towards his legs and commands, “Bind his feet too.”

He’s ready this time, and when the bolas is pulled off his legs Tim kicks one of the minions in the face with as much strength as he can manage. Then, before the first is done sprawling, he grabs the cable above his head and hoists himself up so he can drive both heels into the other one’s stomach. It gives him a second of breathing room as they fall back, and he can shake the last bits of the bolas off his foot and settle back onto the ground.

The relief doesn’t last for long, though, as the men quickly recover and dive back in at him. One grabs his feet as Tim kicks out at them again, holding them tight, while the other readies the shackles on the floor. He writhes violently in an attempt to get back free again but to no avail. His boots and socks are tugged off, then one by one his feet are restrained once more by iron.

As soon as the men are done in their task they retreat backwards, and Ra’s steps forwards to take their place. With one hand, he delicately unhooks the fastening of Tim’s cloak, allowing it to slide to the floor behind him. “A valiant effort, Timothy,” he congratulates him. The buttons of his jacket follow next, then those of his shirt. “If ultimately pointless.”

Tim flinches back as Ra’s’ dry, weathered hand runs down the now bare skin of his chest. “Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

“Still under the impression you have a choice in the matter.” Ra’s sighs at him. “Well, perhaps this experience will prove educational for you in more ways than one.”

Tim shakes his head, talking through clenched teeth as his skin crawls. “Nothing you can do to me will ever make me yours.”

Ra’s fingers slide up to grab his cheek, and Tim glares as he’s forced to stare into poisonous green eyes. “I shall remember you said that, Detective, and enjoy proving it untrue.”

“Fuck you,” he growls this time.

“Uncouth language does not befit an omega of your breeding; we shall have to work on that too. For now, though,” Ra’s withdraws his hand and nods towards the desk in the room, “I have other work to do. But that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy the view.”

Tim jerks against the chains, watching as Ra’s walks away, pulling out the chair and taking a seat by the desk. It _is_ to be suspension then, testing his endurance. But that’s okay. He can handle this, no matter how much it eventually hurts him.

But then one of the guards returns, carrying in his hands what appears to be a rolled up mat. Tim watches warily as he kneels down to unfold it at his feet, and oh of course. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. Ra’s is a sadist in more ways than one. The mat is made with hard metal barbs in neat concentric rows poking out of it. Perhaps not sharp enough to pierce his feet without real force behind them, but certainly sharp enough to hurt at even the slightest hint of pressure. The only way to avoid it completely will be to hold his weight on his arms, and there’s no way Tim can do that for long in his current state.

He’s helpless to stop his feet being lifted just enough to slide the mat under them. All he can do is wrap his hands around the chain above him and hold on. Even then, with only half his weight resting on the barbs, it stings.

The guards retreat again, this time entirely out of the room. Tim watches them go, before turning his eyes back to Ra’s, who smiles at him behind his desk.

“Is there something you wish to say, Detective?”

Tim grits his teeth before resolutely looking back away from him. No way will he give in so easily.

Time ticks on. It doesn’t take long for the ache to start building along Tim’s arms and shoulders. Dull at first, then gradually more intense. It reawakens the pain in his back from his older injuries; mostly healed, but still not ready to handle more than a little strain. Tim tells himself to breathe slow and deep, remember everything he ever learned from his teachers like Bruce and Lady Shiva. Even the slightest drop sends sharp agony stabbing up into the soles of his feet, and everytime it happens he has to fight not to cry out, unwilling to give Ra’s the satisfaction.

Sweat is soon dripping down his face, beads of it pooling at the small of his back and running down his chest. Tim’s hair sticks uncomfortably to his forehead, partly thanks to the effort he’s expending, and partly because the room is unreasonably warm. The blame for that lies with the large fireplace situated to the right of him, flames burning high despite the fact it’s still the middle of the day.

If Tim could spare any focus towards thinking about anything other than staying aloft right now, he’d probably be able to come up with an intensely disturbing explanation for why that is. Probably still will later, when he’s out of this (however long that takes).

Maybe half an hour passes before he truly slips for the first time, nearly numb fingers finally losing their grip on the chains.

The sudden fall jars Tim’s shoulders, threatening to wrench them from their sockets. Almost as bad is the sharp stabbing pain in his feet, forced down by the entirety of his body weight onto the barbs beneath them. This time, no amount of discipline can stop him from yelping, and his head spins as he fights to try and pull himself back up again.

He can do this. He can do this, he can do this, he can—

Twice more Tim pulls himself up. Twice more he falls. His entire body becomes nothing more than one giant stress line of agony as he fights against the inevitable, until eventually — panting hard and whimpering — he absolutely can’t go on anymore.

He must hang there at least another hour, half-passed out from the burn in his muscles, before he has the dull sense of someone standing in front of him.

Fingers grasp Tim’s chin, forcing his head up. He whines at the bend; the way it tugs at his spine and shoulders. Moreso at the alpha scent, strong with rot in his nose.

Ra’s smiles as he leans into him. “What a sight you make, Timothy,” is whispered against his ear. “So beautiful when pushed to your limit. I can’t help but wonder if you’ll look half as lovely on the night I finally bed you.”

Tim inhales sharply, but can’t do much more than that as Ra’s beard scrapes against his cheek.

“Then again, I’m sure that will be an altogether more pleasant affair than this one.” Drawing back from him, Ra’s gives Tim a scrutinising look-over. “I’ll call for the servants to come take you down. I think a bath will do as well.”

He steps away from him, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“And Timothy, I do hope you’ve finally learned your lesson. I’d _hate_ to have to repeat this again.”

If he had the energy, the will, or even the saliva, Tim would spit at Ra’s’ feet. But his world is agony, and his mouth dry from growing dehydration.

All he can do is hang, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Rape, objectification, victim blaming, torture.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, same warnings for the last chapter apply for this one. Please make sure you read with care!

It hits Dick fresh every morning. Not always immediately, sometimes he manages to get dressed and get halfway to breakfast first, or even halfway through the day (that is, on the days he actually manages to get up and leave his bed), but inevitably there comes some point when he remembers that Damian—

Slade doesn’t press him, though it takes him awhile to realize that, lost in the grief as the anger slowly bleeds out of him with no one to actually spend it on. Nothing changes, exactly, but Slade leaves him to watch or read whatever he wants, and doesn’t bother him except to insist that he eat, and occasionally to check his remaining injuries. Dick snaps at him, more than once, and he expects Slade to back him down — __wants__ that fight, in a dark part of his mind — but it never happens. Slade just looks at him, holds the silence long enough to make the displeasure clear, and moves on.

He’s not going to say it, he doesn’t want to admit it even to himself, but the space helps. Slowly, as time drags on, the fresh wound of Damian’s death starts to hurt just a little less, and Dick’s awareness shifts to something else that he knows is about to happen. One more horror that starts to occupy his mind.

Slade hasn’t followed through on the last part of his ‘claim,’ but Dick knows it’s coming. Slade doesn’t make promises or threats idly, and he…

Dick might not be, but Slade __is__ attracted to other alphas. He knows that without a doubt.

It adds on a layer of tension to every interaction. Every time Slade comes close to him, every touch, makes him think of that shadow hanging over the future. The future that’s inching ever closer, as his injuries heal and he starts to be able to actually move and stretch without pain, as long as he’s careful.

Neither of them say anything about it, but they both know. And every week, Dick has to make himself hold as still as he can manage while Slade stands in front of him, fingers traveling methodically down his sides, pressing into his ribs to test them.

This week, there’s no more pain under the exercise, just the normal, odd discomfort of fingers digging into sensitive areas, enough to make his jaw set but not enough to send him cringing back, like it was just a few days ago. All the rest of his injuries healed weeks ago, but a couple of his ribs were cracked on top of all of it, and there’s nothing for those but to bind and wait.

Looks like they’ve finally waited long enough.

Slade pulls his hands away, gaze lingering lower for a moment before pulling up to meet his. “Seems like you’re healed,” is the prognosis, and Dick feels himself lock up at that actual, official confirmation. He shifts back, moves to take a step away, and Slade’s voice lowers as he says, “Kid, let’s not go through this again.” 

“Go through what again?” he manages. “You throwing me down on the floor and biting me? Or maybe you’re suggesting something else now that my ribs are fixed?”

“Grayson—” Slade cuts off, then lifts a hand and presses fingers and thumb into his temples. “Kid, don’t fight me on this. You’re not going to win, and I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

Dick feels a small frisson of fear spark up his spine, but he still takes a step back to put a little distance between them. Slade’s hand drops to let the single eye watch him. “If that was true, you wouldn’t be doing this. Don’t, Slade.”

Slade’s eye narrows. “Don’t be purposefully obtuse; it doesn’t suit you. You might not like it, but being here with me is the only way you stay alive and you know it. Without me, you’d be dead by now, and then you’d have no chance at all. Stop making things harder than they need to be; __don’t__ fight me on this.”

“Don’t fight?” Dick asks, feeling almost incredulous, setting himself against the lower ranges Slade’s voice is slipping into. “If you think I’m going to just stand down and let this happen, you’re delusional, Slade. If you’re going to __rape__ me, you’re going to have to face the facts of what you’re doing.”

Slade barely reacts, except to break the moments of silence between them with a warning, “Don’t make me do this, kid.”

His stance shifts, one leg moving slightly back to get him to a more defensible position. “I’m not making you do anything, Slade. I don’t want this.” His hands shake slightly, but Dick forces it away with a slow exhale. “But I’m not going to just __let__ you rape me.”

It’s old tactics, repeating the word, emphasizing it to try and really bring to the light what’s being threatened, but Dick can’t make himself believe the thin hope that it might actually work. The idea that Slade just hasn’t realized what he’s threatening is pretty much unbelievable; Dick’s never known Slade to commit to any course of action he hasn’t fully thought through yet. Especially a drastic one.

Slade’s brow is drawn into a furrow, eye narrowed. “Kid…” He sighs, lifts a hand to rub over his temples again. “Fine. You want to do this the hard way? We’ll do this the hard way.”

Dick brings both hands up, knees bending as his every sense goes to high alert. “Just try it.”

He’s expecting Slade to lunge at him, but what happens is so much more simple and devastating. One hand slides into a pocket, pulls a small control switch, and Dick has exactly enough time to remember the collar around his throat before the shock drops him to the floor.

The cry that bursts from his chest is as much surprise as pain. He has no control over how he spasms, and by the time the shock clicks off Slade is standing over him, kneeling to shove him onto his stomach while his limbs are still too weak to fight it.

“No,” he breathes, as a hand tangles in his hair, bearing his skull down against the floor. “ _ _No__. Slade, don’t. Don’t do this, don’t—”

“Shut up, kid.”

Teeth sink into his neck and Dick cries out, his nails scraping against the floor as he jerks, trying to fight the instinct that wants him to go loose and give up. He can’t— He can’t let this happen, he has to fight, he has to—

The growl that vibrates into his throat is deep and vicious, drawing him rigid for a moment and then — as his rational brain is firmly shoved to the curb — pulling a breathless whine between his teeth. Dick makes a helpless, pleading sound as he goes limp, unable to fight the demand for submission with such a threat at his back, holding onto his __neck__ with jaws powerful enough they could probably crack his spine.

His hair is released, but the teeth stay. Slade’s hands take his shirt, and one hard pull __rips__ it right down his back, a couple more shredding it off his arms as well. He whines again, fingers curling against the floor. Slade’s hands fall to his waist, one shoving beneath him to pop the button on his jeans, grab the zipper.

Fuck, this is happening. This is really happening.

Dick feels the raw, shaking fear swell up from inside his chest, and finds himself gasping, “No, __no__ ,” as he struggles, despite the teeth on his neck.

His limbs are obeying him again, and he claws backwards at where Slade’s head must be, looking for any skin he can reach in sheer, instinctive desperation. (He can’t do this. He can’t endure this, not again, __not again__.) There’s no thought to how he shoves at the ground with his other hand, twisting his neck away from the teeth in it. It hurts, but he doesn’t care, he can’t care. He just has to get out, to get __away.__

The teeth let go.

Dick shoves away, fingers scrabbling over the wooden floor as he jerks to the side, tries to claw his way out from under the hovering presence of the other alpha above him. But a hand grabs one of his arms, dragging him back the inches he’s gained and flipping him to crack his back painfully against the floor. It winds him, stunning him for just a brief second, and that’s all it takes for him to remember it’s Slade above him, looming over him with a tight jaw and a trace of blood at the corner of his mouth. Slade, straddling his waist like— like—

He twists, lashing out at the wrist of the hand holding him. Doesn’t even get close before Slade’s grabbing his other hand and wrenching it off to the side, baring teeth down at him in a snarl.

“Give, kid,” he snaps, and Dick feels the pull of the command, knows in his bones that Slade is the stronger of the two of them, the leader.

He twists the arm held less securely, getting his fingers on Slade’s bicep and digging his nails into it. They’re cut short, dull, but he clings tighter and __rakes__ and that’s enough to do damage. He sees the red bloom down Slade’s arm, but the smell doesn’t even reach him before Slade’s ripping loose and grabbing his wrist instead, cracking it into the floor above his head.

“That’s __enough__ ,” Slade demands, fingers tight enough to leave bruises, now. “Grayson, stop!”

Dick shakes his head, trembling and unable to stop it, barely able to make himself breathe. “No. __No__ , not this. Slade, not this. Get off me!”

He tries to buck, but Slade’s heavy and powerful, and it only succeeds in making him bear his weight down, a leg twisting to pin his thighs to the floor with one calf, in a move that would never work except for that Slade’s stronger than any normal human. Too strong. What chance does he have, alone and unarmed?

Minimal, but he has to. The thought of just lying there, __again__ , while someone takes what they want from him — takes __him__ — terrifies him right down to the bone. It’s stronger than any threat Slade represents, any reason he could find to stay still and just let this happen.

He… He __can’t__.

Dick’s teeth bare without any real consent from his mind, and he finds new strength to struggle, twisting his wrists and his legs against Slade’s pins, trying to free enough that he can do something. One leg comes loose, and he __cracks__ his knee into Slade’s back with as much strength as he can manage. Enough that Slade pitches forward slightly with a grunt, though it’s only irritated displeasure in his expression, not pain.

“Damnit, kid, __stop.__ ”

He snarls, coiling to do it again, and this time Slade snarls back. The hands on his arms wrench them higher, up above his head, and one heavy hand closes around both his wrists. He barely has time to process that change, to even start to think about what it means, before Slade’s now free hand closes around his throat instead.

Dick takes a sharp breath on automatic, expecting it to squeeze, to cut off his air, but when Slade’s fingers dig into his skin that’s not what they’re targeting. He recognizes where they do dig in though, recognizes the almost immediate sensation of it as his arteries are compressed, cut off. Not possible to do with one hand, for most people, but with that extra strength, and the sheer __size__ of Slade’s hands…

“No,” he gasps, trying to crane his neck away, to dislodge the fingers even a little. It doesn’t work; he doesn’t have anything to work with.

Slade holds him there, and it’s __fast__ , god he forgets how fast it is. How within a couple moments he can feel the dizziness, feel himself slowing, weakening. How the black spots in at the edges of his vision, and then starts to take it all together. Somewhere in it he hears himself whine, feels it as he falls limp, and then stops feeling anything at all.

When he comes to, it’s fuzzy, like waking from drugging, or an unexpected nap. Or getting choked out.

Shifting tells him he’s on fabric, and then that his arms are tied behind him. He makes a sound at that discovery, afraid for reasons that his lingering disorientation won’t quite let him remember. Except that there are hands at his thighs, and they’re… they’re bare and that’s not right, that’s not—

Then he __does__ remember.

His kick doesn’t hit anything, but he hears Slade curse above him, one hand leaving his thigh and grabbing the back of his neck. The sharp flash of pain as it digs in against the bite mark feels like a flood trying to wash away all his panic, all his fight, but Dick grits his teeth and hangs on, trying to categorize what’s changed in the seconds he’s been out.

He’s on a bed, his arms are restrained, and his legs are bare. No, all of him is. He’s naked, entirely. The fact threatens to make him hyperventilate, shortening his breath, tightening his chest.

A leg presses down across his thighs, pinning them before he can get together enough mind to try and kick out again, or get leverage. The fabric of the jeans is rough against his skin, and the pressure of the shin hard enough to ache a little. He can’t move, he can’t—

“Don’t,” he says, and his voice comes out a little slurred.

Slade’s fingers tighten on his neck. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, kid. Just let me get it done.”

The other hand touches him, where it’s got __no__ business being, and Dick jerks, whining high and panicked. He doesn’t like the feeling, doesn’t want the slick touch pressing inwards, the deep growl forcing him limp when he’s too tense for it to happen.

He barely recognizes the pleas falling from his mouth as his own; they’re so desperate and frightened. So unlike the way he usually sounds.

He hates this. Hates not being in control. Not being able to fight. Not able to stop it as Slade’s hands do their work, in a way that’s perhaps even worse than what she did to him. At least that was… was… 

__No,__ he can’t think. Can’t stop it. Can’t even breathe as it goes on. Water drops on his skin. Dry sheets underneath him. Heavy weight on his back and grunting in his ear, but on his waist, too. High feminine gasps of pleasure and he’s so so __dizzy__. He doesn’t know where he is, except that he doesn’t want to be here.

He wants to go home. Wants to be home. Wants warmth and familiarity. To be safe and...

__Please, please, please, let me—_ _

"You’re alright, kid. You’re alright." Slade quietly says in his ear when it’s over. When he’s done having his way with Dick’s body and using him like that’s all he is.

His head is spinning in circles, between alpha scent — heavy and thick in his nose, stronger than his own thanks to all… this — and the ghost of omega, but the words still manage to get to him. He tries to take a deep breath even through the tightness of his chest, his head pulling a little further down, inadvertently baring a little more of his neck to Slade's mouth. He almost expects a bite, like earlier (as the half-circles of teeth marks scattered over him will attest to), but instead Slade's mouth is gentle, pressing a soft kiss to where his hair dusts the back of his neck. The hand on his back, stroking firm and solid just to the side of his spine, doesn't stop. It… helps.

"Can you talk to me, kid?" Slade asks, voice a low murmur.

Dick shivers, but it doesn't have the same feeling as the intense tremble of his shoulders from not even minutes ago, when he was still feeling the phantom sensation of hands pinning his shoulders down and rain against his skin. He finds his voice enough, after a few moments, to manage a rough, "About what?"

Slade's hand rubs at his back; comforting circles that help Dick breathe a little easier. "It doesn't matter what. Talk to me, kid, about anything you like. Get out of your head and come back to the world."

But the words sink him deeper, prick at his neck, and all he can think to say is, "You're not the first to do this to me."

The hand on his back stills, and he can feel Slade take a small, sharp breath in. As if Slade's shocked. __Shocked__ , after what he's just done.

Dick can't quite make himself jerk away, not with the breath fanning across his neck and instinct still demanding that he surrender to the more powerful alpha at his back, so the tension just curls in his chest and can't go anywhere. There's no exit for the energy, nothing for him to do but clench his teeth together and press his forehead to the bed. If he moves he'll remember the strange, open, wet feeling of all of this, and he'll have to deal with Slade stopping him, maybe even biting him again (like he needs the reminder that he's the lesser one here).

"Who?" Slade demands, voice sharp enough to make him tense a little more.

"Apart from you?" he snaps back, and that prompts a very low, brief growl. Still enough to make him press his head down to bare his neck and go loose and submissive.

"This was necessary, and I didn't hurt you, kid. It's a hell of a lot better than what you would have gotten from anyone else." Which is probably true, but that doesn't mean that Dick has to like it, and it sure as hell doesn't mean that he has to __thank__ Slade for any of it.

"She didn't hurt me either," he says, low, refusing to look back. "It was back in Bludhaven, a vigilante I was working with named Tarantula. She's gone; you won't find her, Slade."

Slade growls again, low and threatening, and Dick can't help the small whine that escapes his throat. The growl cuts off, and the hand on his back reaches up and clasps his arm instead as Slade moves behind him, pressing close. Teeth and lips press beneath his ear before moving lower, grazing teeth across his throat and then up underneath his chin, which he automatically tilts back and to the side, to let Slade get teeth on the delicate, fragile skin above the top of his trachea. One small, lingering bite — doesn't hurt, but it still makes him go all but limp — and then Slade pulls back, now leaning somewhat over him.

"I'm not angry with you, kid," Slade says, voice gone quiet. "Just her. I'm sorry that was done to you."

Dick shudders, fights instinct long enough to say, "Don't. Not after this. You're no better," as he looks up into Slade's eye.

He's expecting retaliation, but Slade just watches him for a few long moments before lightly squeezing his arm. "Things aren't going to change, kid. You're better off getting used to them now, before it gets you into trouble.”

The laugh wrenches its way out of his throat before he can think to contain it. “ _ _This__ isn’t trouble?”

There’s another moment of silence, before Slade gives an exhalation that might just be a sigh and says, “Kid, if this still counted as trouble then I wouldn’t have to do it.”

He moves then, letting go of Dick’s arm and pushing up to sitting, fingers brushing along the line of his side, down to rest at his waist. Dick shivers, and the touch vanishes a moment later. Returns, only to undo the restraints around his wrists and let his arms fall free. His shoulders protest a little, but it makes some small, deep part of him feel better to not be tied down in even that small way.

“I’ll get you some water. Are you hungry?”

Dick can’t quite find the words to describe how the thought of eating anything makes his stomach tight and miserable, so he just shakes his head, turning his face into the bed. (But it smells like Slade, like sex, and that turns his stomach too.)

“Alright,” Slade agrees, as he gets off the bed.

There’s the sliding, soft rasp of fabric, before Slade’s bare, equally soft footsteps. Coming closer, and Dick forces himself to look up when fingers brush through his hair. Slade is kneeling at the side of the bed, watching him with an expression that almost looks like concern. (And Dick hates himself for actually believing that it’s real, that Slade __does__ care.) The hand cups the back of his skull, tilting his head to meet Slade’s gaze more directly, the casual control making him tense up again, but not quite enough to fight it.

“I’ll be right back,” Slade promises, voice pitched low and sincere. “Is there anything else you need?”

Dick gives a hard breath, and then manages a rough, “Freedom?”

Slade’s mouth twists into a nearly sad smile. “They’d kill you in a heartbeat, kid, and I’m a little too selfish to let that happen. Water then, and I’ll grab you a couple painkillers too.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah,” is the instant interrupt, “you are.” Slade’s hand slips away from his scalp as he stands, the silk of his robe falling slightly open before he adjusts it. “If I’d worked at it long enough, I could have gotten you to a point where it wouldn’t hurt at all, but I made a compromise for your comfort. Less time, in exchange for residual soreness. I figured you could handle the ache, and would appreciate this taking as little time as possible.”

Slade’s not __wrong__ , but that doesn’t mean Dick likes hearing it, or likes being called out on his denial of the gentle ache in his thighs and… deeper. He doesn’t want to be reminded of how strange it all felt, and still feels. He wasn’t— His body wasn’t __designed__ for what Slade put it through, even though it apparently could handle it. (Dick can’t quite believe, somewhere in the back parts of his mind, that Slade really __fit__. He knows it’s not as uncommon as it could be, but still, that seems like a __lot__ to force his body to accept. He has a new, strange respect for omegas now. To be that __full__ …)

“We can get you cleaned up soon,” Slade says, from above him. “Water and the pills first, kid. Then we can deal with the rest.”

Dick, free from Slade’s touch, turns his face back into the sheets instead of answering. After a moment of silence, he hears Slade leave.

He doesn’t __want__ anything from Slade. He wants all this to be some kind of horrific, too-detailed nightmare, or some sort of psychic trap, or hell, even an alternate universe he accidentally stumbled into. __Anything__ but to have to face that all of this is painfully, awfully, real.

He wants to go home, to hug __any__ of his brothers, or Bruce. He wants to laugh with Kori, or watch the stars with Barbara, or just lie on his own damn couch with a cup of good coffee and a half-decent episode of something mindless. He wants anything but to be lying on this bed, sore and open and __fucked__ , while his captor fetches him water and— and— __painkillers__.

Dick grits his teeth and strangles back the whine that builds at the back of his throat, to match the burn of tears at the corners of his eyes. He shudders but refuses to let the tears fall, or the whine sound. He __won’t__. He’s not weak, and even though he’s hurt he’s not going to let Slade step in and play hero. Slade doesn’t get to pretend at comfort, not after what he’s done. Not even if he really means it.

He drives the pain down, forcing himself to take deeper breaths to shut it away before Slade comes back.

No matter what Slade does to him, no matter what he threatens, Dick will not give into this. He’s never going to stop fighting it, never going to stop trying to get away. __Never__.

**Author's Note:**

> [Firefright's tumblr!](firefright.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Skalidra's tumblr!](skalidra.tumblr.com)


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